


Abducted

by sadfascist



Category: Spider-Man (Ultimateverse), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Abduction, Anal Sex, Bondage, Brainwashing, Dark, Depression, Electrocution, F/M, Frottage, Kidnapping, M/M, Oral Sex, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Torture, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Stockholm Syndrome, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture, Trauma, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2018-11-12 09:04:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11158653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadfascist/pseuds/sadfascist
Summary: Teen Spidey is kidnapped by a depraved stalker and subject to unspeakable acts of abuse. Can anyone save him... before it's too late? COMPLETE.





	1. Michael

Spiderman was awake when Michael descended into the basement, the boy’s muffled shouts bouncing off the soundproofed walls. Just the sound of it made Michael’s dick stiffen. He got even more excited when he saw the young superhero in the flesh. Spiderman was shackled to the floor by a collar around his neck, handcuffs that held his arms tight by his sides, and fetters that bound his ankles together and stretched out his legs into a taut line. A rubber gag was stuffed over his spandex mask and into his mouth.

The little slut was utterly helpless, but that did not stop him from trying to struggle anyway, flopping his lithe, spandex-clad body up and down like a fish.

Michael laughed. “You learn real slow, don’t you?”

He ambled over, standing with his legs spread over Spiderman’s shackled, supine body. Then he stomped on Spiderman’s dick. The captured teenager shrieked in pain, his screams muffled by the rubber ball gag, metal shackles rattling loudly. “Filthy little bugboy bitch,” Michael said with satisfaction. The little spandex bulge between Spiderman’s closed legs bounced lewdly as the boy thrashed around. Michael could not resist it. He rammed the heel of his sneaker into Spiderman’s crotch again, as hard as he could, grinding his foot right into the boy’s testicles.

The feeling of the little faggot spider writhing and screaming under him was absolutely incredible.

Michael began their torture sessions, as he usually did, with the cattle prod.

He pressed the long cattle prod savagely into Spiderman’s chest. Electricity leaped from the two sharp tips, electrocuting the helpless hero. Spiderman shrieked through the gag stuffed over his mask. His slender, lithe body writhed against the shackles, trying to escape the torture, but to no effect. The carbonadium-laced chains were far too tough even for Spiderman’s super-strength to break. Michael cackled, twisting the two sharp tips of his cattle prod even harder. Voltage leaped continuously into the young superhero’s body, causing him to thrash in uncontrollable agony. The sight of the teen writhing around like that made Michael want to keep on electrocuting Spiderman until he died, god, he was such a filthy slut.

As it was, when Michael finally lifted the cattle prod, Spiderman had vomited and defecated all over his own costume. This always happened during their sessions—the extreme torture had caused Spiderman to lose control of his bodily functions. A revolting stench rose from the boy’s abused body, the stink of spandex smeared with every possible human fluid.

It smelled horrifying, Michael thought. It smelled perfect.

Michael molested Spiderman roughly. The boy’s spandex costume was incredibly tight and thin, clinging to every curve. Michael could feel everything beneath it: the boy’s wiry muscles, his sinuous chest and nipples, his thighs with their sticky heat, his face. Spiderman had gone limp from the torture, his head lolling to one side. The huge white bug eyes of the boy’s mask were fouled with vomit, the rubber gag stuffed over his mask scored with bite marks. Michael straddled the defeated superhero’s shoulders, locking the boy’s head between his knees, and began to fuck him in the face.

The smooth, skintight spandex of Spiderman’s mask was like a sex pillow. Michael drove his raging erection over it again and again. “Goddamn, you little spiderslut,” Michael moaned. The fuck was so good that Michael almost ejaculated right there, and then again when the boy started to struggle under him, choking from lack of air. The helpless young hero moaned desperately through his gag, trying to free himself, but only succeeded in burying his face more deeply into Michael’s groin. “Stupid bugboy,” Michael told him. “You dirty filthy little insect, you’re mine.”

Once again Michael had the impulse to keep on fucking Spiderman until he died, but once again he resisted. Instead he directed his sexual attentions to the rest of Spiderman’s body. He rubbed his penis across Spiderman’s arms and chest, sliding himself over the boy’s closed legs and thighs and taut belly. Every part of the little slut was vulnerable, his shiny spandex costume slick with sweat. Michael’s favorite position was the simplest. Lying on top of the shackled teen, face to face, kissing the teen’s gagged mouth even as Michael drove his dick against the teen’s own erection. Spiderman always got an erection, no matter how hard he tried to resist. “Goddamn faggot,” Michael would whisper in his ear. “I knew you liked it. Dirty spiderslut, you want it so bad, don’t you?”

The boy would arch under him then, screaming muffled words, but Michael would only laugh. Spiderman’s costume was so thin that Michael could feel the heat of the boy’s stiff little boner right through the fabric. The first time he’d fucked Spiderman, two weeks ago, Michael had orgasmed almost as soon as he’d felt that, his hot seed spilling onto the boy’s belly.

Now Michael pressed down with all his weight, grinding himself into the captured superhero beneath. Spiderman squirmed and twisted, thrashing his slim body against the chains that stretched him out flat across the cold metal floor like a plank. It was no use. Unbreakable shackles bound Spiderman tightly to the floor at ankle, wrists, and throat. There was just enough slack in the chain so that the young teenager could raise his limbs slightly—an inch, no more. Michael had made it that way on purpose. He loved the sounds the chains made as they rattled, as the boy fought helplessly to escape, as he writhed beneath Michael’s torture. “You stupid mutant faggot.” Michael thrust his naked dick hard against the boy’s own throbbing erection. “You slutty spider bitch, you know you want it so bad.”

Spiderman climaxed first, unable to stop himself. Michael felt the hot jizz spurt from the boy’s dick, staining the boy’s tight spandex costume, seeping down between his legs. Spiderman gave a muffled groan. Michael ejaculated soon after, waves of warm sticky fluid that pasted their bodies together. Spiderman’s gaudy red and blue costume was soiled everywhere with semen, with the stench of urine and feces and vomit. “You’re so fucking disgusting,” Michael told him. “Look at you, this is all you’re good for, to be my goddamn bitch, forever.”

The boy started to cry.

This often happened after Michael fucked him, and it was one of Michael’s favorite parts. The defeated, abducted Spiderman shook in his chains, making a pathetic whimpering noise, his slender young body wracked with sobs. Michael loved the feeling of the broken teenager shuddering and trembling beneath him. It made him hard all over again.

Michael humped Spiderman some more, cumming violently onto the teen’s face and chest. Then he picked up his cattle prod and began to electrocute Spiderman again. The teen shrieked in agony from the electro-shock torture, his body thrashing wildly this way and then. Michael drank in the sight of the captured hero, chained on the floor like that, little more than naked in his red and blue bodysuit, gyrating wildly, the boy’s torso clenching and arching up with every shock. The thin spandex costume hugged the teen’s body perfectly, revealing every anatomical feature. He was small and lithe as an acrobat, all wiry muscles and smooth taut curves. So young and tiny and vulnerable. Michael was near twice the girth of the captured superhero, twice the weight. Michael could wrap his hands right around Spiderman’s waist, small as a girl’s, and squeeze him like a ripe melon.

“You like that, don’t you?” taunted Michael. By this point in their session Spiderman had been electrocuted so often that all the fluids had already come out him. Yet Michael could still coax out something if he tried. A little bit of slimy shit leaking out from between the young hero’s legs, a little dribble of urine or some vomit that foamed out from behind the teen’s gag. Michael laughed in delight at the vicious torture, the boy’s gagged screams making it only more pleasurable, his involuntary convulsions, the sight of his tight little body bouncing up and down helplessly. “You stained your costume again, goddamn, you’re so fucking dirty.”

Tendrils of smoke wafted from Spiderman’s limp, prone body where Michael had shocked him with the cattle prod.

Michael smiled. “Time for the main course, you filthy mutant freak.”

He turned the superhero over roughly, temporarily unshackling the locks that fixed the boy’s handcuffed wrists to the floor on either side, but leaving the collar and the ankle fetters on. He’d designed the fetters so that their chains circled around on a track, allowing Michael to easily flip the boy over as he chose. Spiderman’s wrists remained shackled together by another, longer chain that was grounded to a central locking bolt buried in the floor, so that even with his arms temporarily free the boy could still not move them in any significant degree. This way Michael could turn the boy onto his stomach without any risk of escape, reattaching the chains to the handcuffs as soon as he’d finished. It was over in seconds. Spiderman made no attempt to resist, his abused body broken from the torture.

Now Spiderman lay chained on his stomach, his whole body flat and stretched taut against the hard floor. Again, the little faggot’s tight spandex costume hid nothing. Michael groaned at the sight of it. The perfect curve of the boy’s ass, his torso and closed legs pressed tight together, just waiting to be ripped apart. Every inch of him totally exposed. “You disgusting spiderslut, I’m gonna fuck you so hard.”

Michael ran his hands down the curve of the boy’s taut round ass. First lightly, almost stroking or caressing it; then harder. Kneading it, feeling the heat of the boy’s flesh beneath the spandex, feeling the boy’s wet defecations. Michael pushed his face into Spiderman’s ass to get the full sensory experience. “Oh god!” he gasped. It was lust, impossible lust. The rush of forbidden desire. These were the moments Michael had dreamed of for months, ever since Spiderman had first appeared, ever since he’d set his sinister plan in motion. Even now he could scarcely believe it was a reality. Michael breathed in the stench of Spiderman’s abused body, his little slutty mutant boy scent, sweat and shit and blood and semen and spandex, the stink of every lewd bodily fluid. In Michael’s arms the limp superhero seemed to weigh almost nothing, light as a ballerina, a small child. The boy’s sinuous chest moved slightly, in and out. “Just like the filthy slut you are,” whispered Michael. “Just like a prostitute asking to be raped. Asking for it…”

Michael orgasmed again, spurting his seed across the boy’s thighs. Then he fucked Spiderboy’s back for a while, and again between the boy’s closed thighs. Finally he moved on to the final act. Spiderman was hardly conscious, exhausted to the limits of his endurance… just the way Michael liked it. Michael pushed his raging manhood into the crack between the boy’s asscheeks, sliding it back and forth. With a final groan he pulled the boy’s ass open, feeling the boy’s puckered little rosebud underneath the smooth spandex. Then Michael thrust in with all his strength.

“Goddamn, you’re so fucking tight!”

The feeling was amazing. The first time, two weeks ago, Michael had expected his thrust would tear a hole in the boy’s costume. But it didn’t. All the costume did was stretch, the tightly-woven spandex enclosing Michael’s dick as he drove into Spiderman’s anus. The bodysuit had in effect become a red and blue spandex condom. It was even better this way, thought Michael, even better than in his wild fantasies of ripping Spiderman’s slutty costume apart piece by piece. Michael gasped in pleasure, Spiderman’s slim wiry body squirming underneath him. The boy moaned, awake now, helpless. Michael wrapped his arms around Spiderman’s neck, reveling in the helpless teen’s dirty gyrations, his filthy cries, plunging himself into the shackled superhero as far as he could go. He pulled back, thrust in again, again and again. “Fucking spiderslut, you’re mine now. You exist to be my little fucktoy, my sex slave. Oh god, your ass is so tight, so hot, it squeezes me so tight as I use your body for its only purpose. Take your fucking rape, bitch! Take it!”

The scream he got echoed through the basement even through the gag.

Michael sped up in a frenzy, making the boy’s muffled shrieks reach fever pitch. He went faster and faster and faster. Pumping into Spiderman’s ass like a pile-driver, filling the boy’s body with his cum gun, reaming it, claiming his total ownership over the captured hero. The boy was unbearably tight and wet and young. Michael groaned in ecstasy with every thrust. When at last Michael spurted, his cum exploding deep in Spiderman’s rectum, the spandex costume acted like a condom, letting the cum seep back down slowly to the base of Michael’s dick. It was an incredible feeling. Sometimes Michael went soft after a good long fuck of Spiderman’s thighs or stomach or face, but never when he was buried in the little slut’s hot teenage ass. “You’re too fucking tight,” he gasped. “Goddamn. Goddamn…”

How many times had Michael orgasmed tonight? It must have been more than he could count on one hand. At long last he felt exhausted. “Goddamn,” he moaned again, memories of the night’s torture and rape session rising up like a distant dream. Michael’s cock was still hard, still buried deep into Spiderman’s spandex-clad body, but his eyelids were closing. “You filthy little fucking bugboy, you wore me out.” Spiderman was utterly limp beneath him. Perhaps the excitement had been enough for one night, Michael thought. After all, his shackled spider would still be there waiting for him tomorrow. And besides…

… Michael had to wake up early for work.

He fell asleep with a smile on his face.


	2. Peter

When Peter dreamed, he dreamed of freedom, and when the boy woke it was to a living nightmare.

Pain—hellish, blinding pain that invaded his body mercilessly, that seemed to split his insides with every thrust. A hoarse scream tore from Peter’s throat, muffled by the rubber ball gag stuffed in his mouth. A grossly overweight fat man pressed down on him from above, crushing him to the cold steel floor, the fat man’s huge dick buried violently inside Peter’s ass. Metal shackles chained Peter’s neck, wrists, and ankles tightly in place, making it impossible to fight back.

_This can’t be happening_. Peter tried to scream his denial. It was a nightmare, some horrible nightmare. _I’m not_ —

But he was.

Oh god, he was.

The fat man continued to rape Peter without interruption. “Stop!” Peter shrieked, but the gag swallowed all his words. The man only grunted, moaning in sick pleasure as he plunged his entire length viciously into Peter’s anus. Peter could do nothing. All his attempts to resist only made his abductor more excited, his thrusts that much more savage. _Oh, god!_ It hurt so much. He had never imagined it could hurt so much. _Try to lie still… let him do it…_

The rape would be easier this way.

And he was right. The fat man climaxed after another few minutes, spurting his seed into Peter’s ass. Then he groaned, letting his full weight fall upon Peter beneath. It was like being buried beneath a three-hundred pound slab of meat. Peter moaned as well—moaning out of sheer relief and deliverance. The horrible pain had stopped… at least for a moment. The broken teenage hero sucked in breaths through his vomit-drenched mask. His rectum was warm with blood and sweat and semen, bruised raw with abuse.

“Filthy little spiderslut,” the man said. “You fucking liked that, didn’t you?”

His abductor pushed a hand underneath Peter’s prostrate body. Fat fingers pulled on Peter’s dick, rubbing it through his soiled spandex costume. Peter was too weak to resist. He never could. He was getting hard, aroused, his cock responding like a trained slave to his rapist’s touch. A wave of disgusting pleasure shuddered through him. “No,” the boy whispered into his gag. “No, stop, please—”

Peter’s penis pushed upward as it stiffened, pressing against the skintight fabric of his Spiderman costume. The tightening spandex rubbed salaciously against his hard little erection. Peter couldn’t stop himself. He struggled as if somehow to escape, thrashing against the shackles that chained him to the floor. But the boy’s gyrations only made the fat man’s grip on his dick more insistent. Only made Peter moan in dirty, perverted lust. He was being raped again… raped with the shame and the self-degradation of his own sexual arousal.

_God… I don’t… I don’t want this…_

Or did he? Peter could hardly tell anymore. Being jacked off was not nearly as bad as having his shit pushed in on a constant basis. It was the only pleasure he knew in this hell. The only release—

Peter orgasmed with a scream, his teeth biting into the rubber gag.

The fat man on top of Peter grunted. “You little bugboy shit, that took long enough, didn’t it? I’m going to be late for work.”

Idly the man fondled Peter’s softening dick for another moment or two. Then, finally, the man pulled away, removing his body from Peter’s rectum and crotch. The boy moaned from the release of the almost unbearable pressure. For no reason at all the man decided to stomp his foot on Peter’s head. It was a vicious attack, even for Peter’s superhuman body, and the fat man put all his weight behind it. Peter cried out in pain as his face was slammed repeatedly into the metal floor. His abductor laughed loudly. The man taunted Peter even as he beat him, calling out obscene insults, making lewd promises about what he’d do to Peter after he came back from his shift at the store.

The boy watched the fat man go in a daze.

Watched the man walk up the basement steps. Watched him flick off the single, dim fluorescent light as he opened the door and closed it behind him… watched everything vanish from the room. The click of a heavy lock.

Peter was alone in the darkness.

_Oh, god_.

He tried to retreat inside himself. Tried to pretend that he was somewhere else. Memories of happier days surfaced like the fragments of a fading dream. Home with Aunt May and Uncle Ben, eating apple pie at the dinner table. Holding hands with Mary Jane on the subway ride to school. Swinging through the streets of Manhattan, the rush of wind on his costume as he danced across the sky…but it was too hard to pretend. It hurt too much. The boy’s entire body ached from the pain of endless beatings, whippings, electrocutions, waterboardings, and rapes. He was so hungry and thirsty that it felt like a hole was being gnawed in his stomach. Perhaps the worst thing of all was the smell. The stench of his own piss and vomit and shit and blood, staining his skintight spandex costume from head to toe. The young teen couldn’t even breathe without inhaling the filthy fluids smeared across his mask. It was overpoweringly nauseating.

_How did this happen to me?_

Peter didn’t understand. He was Spiderman. He was a superhero, he was the one who saved people from the bad guys. He wasn’t supposed to be… _god… what did I do to deserve this?_ It didn’t make any sense. He could lift up a car, so why couldn’t he break these fucking metal shackles? He’d fought and beaten a dozen supervillains, so why couldn’t he escape from this fat neckbeard sicko? Why in god’s name was he being raped and tortured every time he woke up? _This is just a nightmare, it’s not real._

He wanted to die, but he could not.

Peter hardly even noticed when he began to cry. Since his capture, tears had been as common as pain, as common as whispered taunting insults and as common as being raped.

_Damn you… please…_

How had he entered this hell? Even now, even after all the bitter self-recriminations, the boy could barely believe it. It had all happened so quickly. Peter had been tailing a gang of Kingpin’s thugs into a boarded-up warehouse. They hadn’t even known he was there. Just an ordinary bunch of mafia goons… two-bit idiots of the kind that Peter beat up on a nightly basis. There hadn’t been anyone else around the building except a pizza delivery car in a nearby alley, the engine still running. The presence of the car had barely registered in Peter’s mind; he hadn’t paid any attention to it at all. 

A fatal mistake.

The thugs had been accosting several young women. Apparently the women had gotten on the wrong side of the gang’s leader by refusing his sexual advances, and now they were about to pay in the worst way. When the thugs pulled out guns, Peter leapt to intervene… upon which, predictably, the thugs had turned their guns on him. A blast of bullets lit up the clapped-up room like Christmas lights. Looking back on it, Peter should have ended the fight right then and there. He should have sprayed webbing on top of every single thug and made it impossible for them to move. If he had…

Instead he’s been arrogant. Tired and distracted by a stupid petty spat with Mary Jane earlier that night, and wanting to take out his frustration on some bad guys with his own fists. From the start it had been a bad fight. The warehouse was too cramped for Peter to use his full speed and agility to his advantage. Kingpin’s henchmen also had such bad aim it was hard to predict where the bullets would go next; Peter had to dodge desperately just to avoid being hit. Even so, he’d managed to knock out most of the thugs in short order, using webbing to disable their guns. The women ran away to safety in the confusion. But then a single stray bullet accidentally hit a water pipe hidden behind the wall. A jet of scalding hot water spewed out suddenly, slamming into Peter from behind. He’d reeled in pain, collapsing to the ground. The damn gangbangers piled on top of him then, punching and kicking. One of the thugs hit him in the head repeatedly with a crowbar. Peter managed to recover and defeat them, but not without taking some serious damage in return. By that time steam was filling the whole warehouse. It was hard to see, and his mind was all in a daze. He staggered in pain, clutching his head.

His spider-sense flared, and before he could react the dart hit him in the back.

_What the hell?_ Peter turned around to see a single man. It wasn’t one of the Kingpin’s thugs at all… but a fat, sweaty man in a shirt with the logo of Imo’s Pizza printed on it. It was the goddamn pizza delivery man from the alley outside. A shit-eating grin was plastered on the man’s face, and a dart gun was held aloft in his hand.

More darts hit Peter’s stomach. 

Peter couldn’t dodge them. He could barely even move, sinking to his knees with a weak moan. He tried to brush the darts from his body, but their deadly payload had already been delivered. _Tranquilizers_ , he realized in horror. Peter could already feel the energy draining from his body. Could feel himself start to lose consciousness, black spots closing in on his vision. _Shit…_

He fell to his hands and knees, powerless to resist. The only thing he could do was crawl forward along the floor. _No… I can’t… not like this…_ With a supreme effort Peter lifted his head. The door to the alleyway outside was just in front of him. He tried desperately to reach it. _I gotta…_

…but the man’s hands closed around Peter’s neck instead, lifting Peter off the floor, pressing his face against Peter’s mask. Peter could only stare helplessly into the face of his abductor: an extremely ugly, middle-aged fat man, with sweaty, pasty skin, an unkempt neckbeard, tiny dark beady eyes like a rat’s, and a nose studded with blackheads and pimples.

“Spiderman,” the man laughed. “You’re _mine_.”

It was the last thing Peter remembered before he woke up in this basement.

Just one bad fight.

One bad mistake. One bad choice. _Just one fucking bad day…_ but that was all it took to forever change Peter’s entire life. What had he even been arguing with Mary Jane about, that night? Peter could scarcely remember. _It didn’t matter_. He knew that now, but not at the time. At the time it had seemed so important that Peter had lost his head. Otherwise he never would have so stupidly blundered into a gunfight with a bunch of goons. Otherwise he never would’ve been distracted enough for some sicko stalker to ambush him in the back with tranquilizer darts. _Mary Jane…_ if he ever got out of here, Peter would treat her right, like she deserved. Peter tried to summon a vision of Mary Jane as he’d seen her last. Beautiful Mary Jane, geeky, fiery Mary Jane. He was going to ask Mary Jane to the prom—

Instead he was shackled in the basement of a depraved assistant pizza store manager.

_Oh god, why?_

Peter had never learned his abductor’s name. The fat man only ever referred to himself as Master… Spiderman’s master. Yet during the course of his captivity Peter had learned many other details about the fat man’s life. How could he not? It was obvious that the ugly neckbearded bastard had no friends. Peter was the only person he could talk to—a literal captive and gagged audience—and talk he did. Bitching about his dead mother, who he’d murdered to claim the life insurance money. Bitching about his job at Imo’s Pizza, about his boss, his paycheck, the customers who tipped badly, all the time wasted during the workday when he could be fucking Peter instead. The fat man was the most pathetic and disgusting creature that Peter had ever met. He was a total loser.

And yet this total loser was the one who had finally defeated Spiderman.

_God, this can’t be real. It’s just some sick joke._

It had to be a joke, because there was no way Peter could have possibly lost to this nutjob… Peter tried to laugh, but the laugh quickly became a sob. It didn’t make any sense. Peter was a famous superhero. He had superpowers. He could dodge bullets, lift cars, climb walls. He’d defeated powerful supervillains like the Green Goblin and Dr. Octopus and Venom. But this depraved assistant pizza manager who’d kidnapped him wasn’t a supervillain. He wasn’t even at the level of one of Kingpin’s mafia thugs. Peter doubted the fat man could even run up a flight of stairs without doubling over out of breath.

He was just a sick, obsessed stalker.

_Just one fucking bad day._

Peter had always known that being Spiderman was dangerous. He’d known that, anytime he put on his Spiderman costume, there was a risk of death or capture.

But not like this.

Never like this.

When he closed his eyes, Peter could feel the his captor’s hands touching him again. Fat, sweaty fingers that fondled every inch of his spandex-clad body. Peter tried to resist, to writhe away from the disgusting caresses, to close his legs, but that only made the fat man more excited. Peter could feel the man’s puckered lips against his own, and the corpulent weight of his body on top of his, the heat of his engorged penis driving into Peter’s rectum. He could feel the man inside him still, like a shadow, like a bad dream. Peter felt absolutely filthy and unclean and disgusting.

An intense pang of hunger gnawed at the young hero’s stomach, worse even than the thirst. His captor liked Peter with his costume on, and with the gag in his mouth, so he never fed Peter in the normal way. Instead the fat man pushed a thin tube through a little hole in the center of Peter’s gag, forcing a liquid nutrient drip to soak through his mask. The drip wasn’t enough, of course. Peter’s superhuman metabolism required a lot of calories, and the stress of the fat man’s endless torture and abuse had taken a deadly toll. Lately, when the teen vomited during torture sessions, barely anything came out. Peter could feel his body getting thinner all the time.

How long had he been shackled here… how many days? How many weeks? Gagged as he was, he couldn’t even speak to let his abductorknow that he needed more food. At this rate he was going to fucking starve to death. 

Mary Jane probably thought he was already dead.

_I never had sex with her_ , Peter thought bitterly. The two of them had barely gotten beyond kissing: too shy, too nervous. _I never had sex with anyone until the fat man kidnapped me_. The assistant pizza store manager had taken Peter’s virginity. Taken him and owned him and raped him day and night, raped him over and over again until the helpless teenage hero felt more comfortable with a dick stuck in his ass than otherwise. It would never stop, Peter knew. The man would keep on fucking him until he died.

A sudden burst of rage, desperation, and self-loathing caused Peter to thrash at his shackles again. He didn’t know what they were made of, but it wasn’t ordinary metal. Not even his super-strength seemed to have any effect. The heavy manacles were locked painfully tight around his throat, wrists, and ankles. Chains led from each of the manacles down into a metal slab beneath him, anchoring Peter flat and taut against the cold basement floor. Peter screamed behind his gag, trying to shout for help, writhing, bucking against the restraints, trying to break free with all his remaining strength. But all he could do was make the chains rattle uselessly.

At last Peter sank back down against the floor, limp and exhausted.

“God,” the boy sobbed into his gag. “Please, god, just get it off, _please_ …”

The supreme deity, if he existed, did not hear him. Instead Peter whispered his strangled prayer to an empty room without light, heat, or mercy. He could see nothing, do nothing. The only things keeping him company in this horrible place were the shackles around his limbs, the cold metal floor, and his own filthy, perverted costume. _God_ , _just get it all off_. Somehow his Spiderman costume felt even worse than the shackles. The disgusting spandex pressed down against him from all directions, molesting his naked skin from head to toe, wrapping his entire body like a used condom, the tight, dirty fabric stained and smeared everywhere with piss and shit. Fresh puke filled the boy’s skintight mask, choking him, a slush of reeking bile pressed against his face. It was disgusting and sickening just to breathe.

Peter was being raped by his own costume.

Once the sensation of wearing his Spiderman costume had been intoxicating. Pulling on the red and blue one-piece bodysuit, pulling on his mask, the feeling of the smooth, cool spandex against his skin… becoming someone else. The sense of invulnerability whenever Peter put it on, the sense of transformation. Wearing that costume, he’d felt like a true superhero.

Now the costume only made the boy feel like the dirty little slut he was. “Did you think your little red and blue costume would protect you?” the man would ask Peter with mocking words. Running his rough hands all over Peter’s shackled, defenseless body. “Goddamn, I feel everything. Your costume is so fucking thin. Like it’s painted on or something. Just couldn’t stop yourself, could you? Dressing up in that slutty, tight little bodysuit. Red and blue spandex and nothing underneath. Did you think your costume would protect you, huh? Did you think a bug mask and some shiny spandex would save you from me? Goddamn, it clings to you so tight. You’re such a pervert. Such a sick little spider slut.”

When he raped Peter, the fat man’s huge, thick cock would thrust deep into the spandex covering Peter’s ass. The sheer length would force Peter’s costume to stretch, pulling the elastic spandex fabric even tighter around the rest of his body, so tight that it hurt. The spandex never tore—the material too tough, too densely woven. Peter had sown it with the highest-quality threads to stand up to the rigors of superhero battles, and now it would not break even when he wanted it to. He wanted the spandex to break so badly, to expose his skin out of that suffocating prison, but it never did. He could feel the one-piece bodysuit constrict around his body with each vicious thrust… with each awful explosion of pain.

_Don’t think about it_ , Peter tried to tell himself desperately, Think about anything else. Think about escape. The young teen hero tried to summon old fantasies of somehow breaking the manacles around his wrists and ankles. Of rescue by the Avengers, of snapping the fat man’s neck with his bare hands. He tried to think about Mary Jane’s smile.

But the fantasies of freedom were something that Peter could no longer even imagine. Only reality remained. He could not escape… he would never escape. He could not move except to turn his head from side to side, to pathetically flex his abused torso up and down. He could not protest except to make incoherent blubbering noises through the gag in his mouth. He could not eat or drink except when his captor deigned to feed him. He was a stupid, broken, powerless little fifteen-year-old boy, locked up helplessly in the dark basement of a sadistic rapist. He could do nothing but suffer in the darkness, waiting.

_Waiting for my master to do whatever he wants with me._

Once Peter had been a superhero, and now he was just a filthy sex slave, his body used mercilessly and totally for the pleasure of a demented sicko.

It was almost a relief when the basement door opened again.


	3. Mary Jane

“Where is he?” the old lady asked Mary Jane for the thousandth time, her eyes bloodshot, her voice shaking with fear. “Where’s Peter? Where’s my nephew?”

“I don’t know,” said Mary Jane.

But all she could think was, _Spiderman’s missing too_. May Parker had no idea the two were related, but Mary Jane knew Peter’s secret. Sometimes she’s wished that she had never known. It wasn’t easy, being Spiderman’s girlfriend. Peter spent so much of his time as Spiderman that sometimes it felt like Spiderman and Mary Jane were rivals, fighting each other for Peter’s attention. Sometimes, in a jealous moment, she wished that Spiderman would just go away.

Now Spiderman was gone.

And nobody had any idea where he went.

“Maybe… maybe Peter is doing something he can’t tell us about,” Mary Jane said to Peter’s aunt. The words were pathetic even as they left her mouth. Her vain, desperate hopes all ragged… twisted into lies that she no longer believed. “You know Peter. He would never keep you in the dark, unless it was for something very important.”

“The police say he ran away.”

Mary Jane knew that. The police had questioned her first because her house was the last place that Peter was reported seen. This was, of course, a lie. As Spiderman Peter often did patrols late into the night, and when he came home Peter would tell his Aunt May that he had been at Mary Jane’s house. The night in question Mary Jane had covered for Peter all the way to the next morning, until it was clear Peter had really disappeared.

But she couldn’t tell the police that.

_Not unless I tell them that Peter is Spiderman_. 

Could she? Dare she? MJ didn’t see how it would help. Spiderman and the police didn’t exactly have a friendly relationship… in point of fact, the police had an active warrant out for Spiderman’s arrest. She was sure they would look harder for young Peter Parker than they would for someone they thought was a criminal and a murderer. And what about Aunt May? How would she react to the news that Dr. Octopus or the Green Goblin had possibly killed her only nephew? Wouldn’t that just fuck everything up even more?

_It’s only been two weeks_ , she told herself. Anything could have happened. Maybe Peter had gotten into some scrape, but he’d get out of it. _He usually does, doesn’t he? He’s a superhero._

“Where is he?” Aunt May asked her again.

“I don’t know! Please, Mrs. Parker. Stop asking me that.” MJ had to take a deep breath to calm herself. And then, after a while, “I’m sorry.”

Aunt May turned away. Her face was white as ash, and she did not speak.

Mary Jane was at a loss for words. She visited Aunt May every morning and every night, and each time it seemed that there was less to talk about. Her platitudes had worn so thin the old lady scarcely seemed to hear them. Aunt May pushed a warm up of tea into MJ’s hands with trembling fingers.

“Will you look for him today?”

“Yes,” said MJ.

“Do you promise?”

“Yes.”

“Thank God… I knew Peter could always count on you.”

Now it was Mary Jane’s turn to turn away.

Later, after leaving the Parker apartment—her mood even more dispirited than usual—she took the subway uptown. These days she always went to the same place: the abandoned warehouse on West 56th Street, in Hell’s Kitchen.

It was the place where Spiderman had been seen last.

The story had come out in the tabloids the day after: Spider-man saves Hell’s Kitchen whores! Some of the Kingpin’s henchmen had been threatening them in the warehouse when Spider-man had shown up for the rescue. There had been a fight, Spider-man had beaten up the thugs, and the women had escaped. One of the prostitutes had even written a post on Facebook praising Spider-man for saving her life.

MJ had personally talked to the woman one night, tracking her down in her brothel. The woman explained that she and her friends had run out the warehouse door as soon as the fight began.

“And where did Spiderman go after that?”

“Dunno. Wherever superheroes go, I guess.” She giggled. “Back to his boyfriend.”

“Did you see him leave the warehouse?”

“Girl! I was running for my life!”

So maybe Peter had never left the warehouse at all. According to MJ’s research, the police had arrested the gang members later that night—unconscious and webbed to the ground—but that didn’t mean Peter wasn’t in trouble. No one had actually seen Peter leave. No one actually knew what had happened _after_ the fight.

Mary Jane wanted to cry. She wanted to tear all her hair out. _It’s already been two weeks, damnit_. In that time there had not been the slightest rumor of Spiderman turning up anywhere, and each day that passed made the prospect of his safe return seem more and more unlikely. Dark visions twisted in front of her eyes. Peter in his Spiderman costume, hurt, in pain, being attacked from all sides. Lying in an alley in a pool of blood. Floating face down in the East River. Shot. Stabbed. Bones broken. Head crushed.

Dead.

But if Peter was dead, then where was his body? Surely he would’ve been found by now. Could one of Peter’s supervillains have kidnapped him? It was a terrifying possibility—a possibility that MJ had always feared for as long as she had known Peter’s secret. _They hate him, he’s sacrificed so much of himself for this city, he bleeds for us every day, but all they want to do is kill him and hurt him and make him scream_. Peter had so many powerful enemies… so many twisted foes. The Kingpin. Dr. Octopus. Venom. The Green Goblin. A nightmare came to MJ of Peter chained down somewhere in a dark place, his costume ripped to pieces, unmasked, struggling to break free from his shackles as an insane man in a green halloween mask laughed and laughed.

If the Goblin had captured him…

Mary Jane felt sick just at the thought.

And nobody knew.

_There’s only me_ , she told herself. _I’m the only one who can help him_.

MJ had been skipping out on school to go search for Peter. What else could she do? The police obviously didn’t have any leads. She’d even tried to go to the Avengers for help, desperate, willing to reveal Peter’s secret identity to them, but they weren’t in New York—weren’t even on the planet, if the news could be believed. Nobody had answered at Avengers Tower.

There was only her. If Peter needed her, she needed to be there for him.

_I wasn’t there for him, that night._ Actually, they’d been fighting. She wanted him to spend time with her, he wanted to go out on his nightly patrol as Spiderman. It was the usual argument, only worse. Mary Jane had said some horrible things that night. Stupid, jealous things about how Peter didn’t care about her, about how Peter only wanted to dress up and play super-hero, and if he loved Spiderman so much he should fuck _him_ instead of her, let’s just break up, and she hoped he left and never came back.

_Were those the last words I’ll ever say to him?_ Mary Jane wanted to take them all back. _I love you, Peter_.

But he would never hear it.

The guilt gnawed at her. MJ wondered if, somehow, she was indirectly responsible for Peter’s disappearance. He had been angry, too, after their stupid little spat. He had been distracted. If that had caused him to lose his focus during a fight… caused him to be captured…

_I have to find him_ , she thought.

Hell’s Kitchen was true to its name: the most dangerous and lawless neighborhood in New York, especially at night. That was why MJ had packed a few things in her purse. Thus prepared she’d walked up every single street and alleyway near West 56th Street looking for signs of what could have happened to Peter after the fight in the warehouse. For this purpose MJ had assumed a fake identity for herself as Madeline Stacy, college intern at the Daily Bugle. Ms. Stacy was supposedly writing a piece for the paper about Spiderman’s influence on different local communities in New York, giving MJ cover to ask questions about Spiderman.

Unfortunately, everyone she talked to told her the same thing. Spiderman had been sighted around Hell’s Kitchen often enough. But not anytime in the past two weeks…

The sameness of the answers beat her down. Today, exhausted and dejected after a morning of fruitless searching, Mary Jane was on the verge of getting on the subway and just going back home. Obviously, stalking around Hell’s Kitchen was doing no good for anybody. If she was going to find Peter, she would have to try to a new tack. _But what?_

A rumble in MJ’s stomach told her to get a bite to eat, and just as she was walking past a restaurant. The sign in front said:

IMO’S PIZZA

She walked in. Yes—perhaps a slice of pepperoni and a coke would allow her to think on the matter more carefully. She desperately needed a clear head. The pizzeria was small but well-lit and clean, and not too busy. MJ had eaten at an Imo’s Pizza before, though not this one. It was a popular chain of pizza restaurants over in New Jersey and the outer boroughs. This was the only one in Hell’s Kitchen, it appeared. It smelled much better than the rest of the district. Pleasant scents of fresh bread, cheese, and sizzling meat drifted through the air.

“This is the last fucking straw, Devlin! You’re fired!”

The accented shout startled MJ. An angry Hispanic man stormed in from the pizzeria kitchen, waving his arms around an opera conductor. Another man followed him, equally enraged. _Christ, that guy is ugly_. This was no exaggeration. The second man was the most unattractive individual that Mary Jane had ever seen. He was outrageously fat, with folds of flesh hanging down from his chin that even his neckbeard couldn’t hide, and his face itself was full of pimples. Close-set, beady eyes stared out from beneath folds of sweaty, pasty skin.

The man’s voice didn’t sound any better—like a blender gone wrong. “You can’t do that, Sergio.”

“I just did, you worthless bum. Get the fuck out of here!”

“I’ve worked at Imo’s for twenty-five years…”

“Save the sob story. You were always a shitty manager, Devlin, but at least you came to work on time. Now you can’t even do that.”

“So I’ve been late a couple times—”

“You mean every day for the last two weeks! I gave you one last chance and you fucked it up. Get out, Devlin, or I’ll throw you out.”

Devlin looked like he wanted to fight…. and he was certainly big enough to do it. But the other employees had lined up behind Sergio. Devlin stared at them with a snarl, then spat on the floor. His face was red with anger. “Fuck you, you little spick! You have _no idea_ what I’ve been doing the last couple weeks.” The man gave a little giggle. “Well… you’ll find out soon, Sergio. I promise.”

He slammed the door as he went out.

Sergio the Manager finally noticed MJ, standing right there by the counter. “Uh… sorry about that, m’am.” He scratched at his head. “You kind of walked it at a really bad time. Let me make it up to ya. You want a free pizza?”

Mary Jane’s head was spinning, and not from any curse words.

“Actually… can I ask you a few questions? I know this is a little weird… but I’m a reporter for the Daily Bugle.”

“Uh… sure.”

“Who is that guy?”

“Devlin? You just heard the whole story, I think.”

“So he’s your manager?”

“Assistant manager. Started working here twenty-five years ago as a pizza delivery boy. He always wanted my job, but he never got it. I mean… people skills aren’t exactly his strong suit.”

“I can see that.” MJ frowned. “You said he started coming late to work two weeks ago.”

“That’s right.”

“Did that ever happen before?”

“Never. Not a single damn time.” Sergio shook his head. “The guy was like clockwork. Don’t understand it, myself.”

_Two weeks_ , she thought. _Two weeks…_

It was a thin reed to grasp to, to be sure. Almost certainly a meaningless coincidence. Yet somehow the number seemed to take on an almost talismanic significance in MJ’s mind. Even later, she never figured out why…. what set of strange circumstances had drawn her to focus on this man. But focus she did.

“Did…” She hesitated. “Okay, hear me out, this is for a story. Did Devlin ever show any interest in Spiderman?”

Sergio’s eyebrows shot up. “Sure!”

“What do you mean?”

“Well… I mean, the guy was kind of obsessed. He tried to hide it, but we all knew. Like, whenever Spiderman showed up on TV, he’d drop everything just to watch. Devlin’s one of those weird nerds, you know? That guy who collects comic books and watches dirty cartoons in his basement. That kind of stuff, and you bet the real superheroes are just irresistible. How did you know, m’am?”

Mary Jane didn’t answer. “What’s his full name again?”

“Michael J. Devlin.”

“Thanks. Let just ask a few more questions…”

It didn’t too long. Sergio knew almost nothing about Devlin’s personal life beyond work. Actually, there didn’t appear to be any to speak of. MJ did manage to worm out Devlin’s home address, on the rationale of dropping by to ask Devlin a few questions about Spiderman. Which was actually true.

“Pizza?” Sergio asked her as she bade goodbye.

“No thanks.”

All of a sudden Mary Jane wasn’t hungry.


	4. Michael

Michael J. Devlin was not happy.

_That fucking little spick, how dare he fire me?_

He stormed into the foyer of his brownstone with a scowl, slamming his fist on the table and cursing the betrayal of his boss. He felt almost as angry and humiliated as he had on the day when his own mother had found him jacking off to secret pictures of young, naked, and abused boys. His mother had beat him senseless with a belt that day, nearly killing him, and the curses and taunts had never ended afterward. _My son the faggot, my son the disgusting pedophile, my son the worthless pizza delivery boy_. _Clean up your fucking room or I’ll turn you into the police!_

Michael had stewed in his disgrace for decades, until he’d finally gotten his revenge by choking his mother to death and collecting on her life insurance policy.

His crazy, nagging, harpy mother. That bitch. The house still smelled of her. He’d grown up in this house—decades of suffering under the torment of a demented witch woman—and despite everything he’d done to cleanse the place of her existence Michael could not seem to escape her memory. Her sour perfume had seeped into the wallpaper and poisoned even the very air.

Still… the bitch was dead.

Sergio the Spick Manager wasn’t long for this world, either.

And best of all…

…the spider was waiting for him, gagged and shackled downstairs in Michael’s private basement dungeon. A teenage superhero sex slave, all for him! Sometimes Michael could still not believe how he had succeeded beyond his wildest dreams… how the bad luck in his life had finally changed. Fucking the spider would make everything better. Michael’s boner pressed against his jeans just thinking about the tied-up little bugboy slut.

He walked past the foyer, unlocked the bolt on the basement door, and stepped inside. Immediately the room released a smell of disgusting odors, like a sewer or a septic tank. His slut was so fucking dirty. Michael breathed deeply and sighed in contentment. This was the one place in his mother’s house he had totally rebuilt just for himself. Here, in this room, he was totally in control—where he _had_ _always_ been in control.

The fluorescent light overhead flickered on.

He was pleased to see that Spiderman was awake, his little teenage slut shivering obediently in his chains on the floor, nubile and taut and oh-so wonderfully hot and helpless. The overhead light made a sort of spotlight on the captured hero, a circle of light that reflected off his prone body, making the tight red and blue spandex of his costume almost glow and spark, silhouetting his small, lithe, almost impossibly vulnerable body. The boy raised his head weakly, the bug eyes of his mask gaping up at Michael. It was obvious that the little bitch had been crying.

The sight of the gagged and shackled boy made Michael shudder in pleasure. _My beautiful, filthy little spider slut_. He smiled. “Good news and bad news, Spiderman. Which do you want first? I always prefer to save the good news for last.”

Spiderman stared at him.

“Well… the bad news then. I’ve been fired. My boss said I’d been late to work too many times, the bastard. I worked at Imo’s for twenty-five years and this is how that dirty up-jumped spick treats me. Don’t worry… I’ll get my revenge soon enough.” Michael grinned widely. “And the good news is… well, I’ve been fired. Now I can spend all day, every day, with my favorite spider slut.”

“Mfmph!” the boy cried out behind his gag.

Michael was not quite sure what Spiderman had said. It sounded like, _Fuck you_ , or perhaps, _Oh god_. He laughed. “Oh, you sweet little thing. You’re so goddamn dirty.”

Michael considered how best to play with his spider this evening. It had been two weeks to the day since Michael had kidnapped Spiderman. Truth be told, he was getting a little… restless. Not that raping and torturing the little mutant freak mercilessly was boring, exactly. But Michael felt that he had not quite exhausted all the possibilities inherent in his absolute power and control over the young hero’s body. Perhaps it was time to take their relationship to… the next level.

But first to soften Spiderman up.

Spiderman lay where he’d left him, stretched out flat on his stomach with his arms locked at his sides, his closed legs chained tight together. Michael bent over to run his hands up Spiderman’s thighs and upturned buttocks, then pushed a few fingers up into the boy’s rectum. The young superhero tensed at the touch, whimpering, but otherwise didn’t much resist. _Good, the slut is finally learning_. The teen’s spandex costume had dried out in the time Michael had been gone at work; the thick sticky sensation of stale semen filled the air between the teen’s thighs.

“I missed you,” he whispered. “Did you miss me, too? All alone in the dark, you poor thing, and not even a dildo to keep you company.”

He fingered the boy’s ass, pushing in and out, until the little spider fucktoy began to moan and writhe. This was usually when he rammed in his penis and took his slave violently, but despite his aching cock Michael decided to take things slower for this special occasion.

Instead he turned on the movie projector.

Michael had installed a state-of-the-art home movie theater in the basement, the screen filling the entire far wall. Fucking expensive…almost as expensive as the set of carbonadium-laced shackles he had purchased through the black market, or the tranquilizer gun he’d used to abduct Spiderman. But of course he had money to spare. His mother’s life insurance policy had been most generous—Michael had made sure of it—and Michael had decided to splurge on only the best things for his slave dungeon.

The home movie theater had been one of his most worthwhile purchases. He flicked it on and scrolled to his favorite collection of videos—which he’d named, appropriately, Spider Porn.

Originally the collection had been a series of videos of Spiderman taken by various people, ranging from random bystanders to helicopter news cameras: grainy footage of Spiderman swinging through the city streets, of Spiderman fighting various criminals and supervillains—everything ever recorded about Spiderman that Michael had managed to scour from the Internet. This was the collection that had sustained all of Michael’s fantasies for the past several months, his golden masturbation trove—even despite the fact that there had been no actual pornographic acts depicted.

Michael had, however, supplemented his collection greatly in the last two weeks.

He’d installed video cameras on the walls of the dungeon to capture every single moment of Spiderman’s captivity. There were now hundreds and hundreds of hours of crystal-clear, high-definition video of the little teenage mutant freak being fucked and tortured from all angles. When he wasn’t fucking Spiderman directly—which was, to be sure, not often—Michael had gone through the footage to pick out his favorite scenes and edit them together. He especially desired to view any moments of the boy’s captivity he’d missed, that is, when he was at work and Spiderman had been alone in the basement. The cameras had infrared sensors to see in the dark, and much of this footage was in a ghostly green hue. Spiderman was a lithe black form in a room tinted green, chained by white tentacles.

It was absolutely intoxicating for Michael to watch the boy wake up alone in the darkness. The bugboy always moaned in confusion… always tried to move and struggle, thrashing his hips and limbs as he strained to escape. But he couldn’t. Michael absolutely loved to watch the fear and shame and desperation of captivity play out across the teen’s masked face. He loved to watch the little spandex-clad bitch struggle until he’d used up all his strength, exhausted and drained. He loved to watch the young superhero finally break… that moment in the lonely dark when the teen sagged in his chains, wilted and defeated, and when the little helpless bug-eyed slut began to cry. Michael always turned up the volume to its loudest intensity at those moments.

Michael’s very favorite porno, however, was not of Spiderman alone.

Michael flicked the projector to that video now—their most special video. An image of Michael walking into the basement carrying an unconscious Spiderman in his arms materialized on the screen. The sight of it brought back so many pleasant memories. That sweet, delicious first night.

The night of Spiderman’s abduction.

“Do you remember?” Michael asked his little sex slave, whispering in the boy’s ear as he continued to finger the bugboy’s ass through the spandex. He inserted more fingers into the teen’s ass, then dildos of various sizes, shapes, and descriptions. Spiderman cried out through his gag as Michael played with his perfect fuck toy. “Our very first night together… it turns you on so bad, doesn’t it? Ha! Dirty spider-porn for my dirty little spider-slut.”

Spiderman shook his head, obviously trying to deny how fucking aroused he was. The teen twisted his head away from the direction of the projector screen, as far it would go before being yanked back by his collar chain. Michael could tell that the boy had closed his eyes beneath his mask, obviously trying to avoid looking at the porno. But he couldn’t close his ears to the perfectly pitched surround sound. The vividly recording sounds of Michael abusing Spiderman’s helpless, shackled body—of everything that had happened on that first night.

God, this porn was fucking delicious.

_Hello, Spiderman_ , came Michael’s own voice through the speakers. _Welcome to your new life… as my slave_. A gagging, muffled cry—the cry of a terrified young teenage boy—echoed in answer. More sounds followed in quick succession. Michael’s triumphant laughter. The metallic, clanking sound of the shackles as the boy thrashed against them helplessly… as Michael fell heavily upon the boy’s prostrate, virgin body, touching and stroking and licking it. The sizzling crackle of electric cattle prods meeting tender flesh. The screams that didn’t stop until the boy had lost all his breath.

And the loud, wet slapping sounds of Michael’s penis against spandex.

Michael loved it.

In the present, he took this opportunity to finally thrust into the little spider beneath him. Michael literally watched himself rape Spiderman on screen even as he raped Spiderman in the flesh. It was an extraordinary feeling. Sounds from past and present merged together into one long erotic ecstasy. Of course, the sex was different now. Then—that first time—the boy had been utterly wild. Michael remembered how the hot sweat had poured through Spiderman’s thin, tight spandex costume as he thrashed lewdly to escape. Michael had felt the full impact of the young hero’s super-strength, even with the teen’s entire body chained down, with his limbs shackled and useless. The slippery little twit had almost thrown Michael clear off him with just the desperate gyrations of his torso. Michael had needed to forcibly subdue Spiderman with repeated electro-shocks before he could even get his dick inside.

Now, two weeks later, the boy still struggled, but not nearly as hard. Indeed, these past few days, he’d scarcely resisted at all. 

Michael approved.

“You learn,” he told Spiderman. “You disgusting freak, you learn so fucking slowly, but you learn.”

When Michael finished ejaculating, he lay on top of the boy for a while, his weight and bulk smothering the much smaller body beneath him. Soft sobbing sounds filtered through the boy’s gag—the little shit was crying again. Michael was amused. He moved around to the boy’s front, kneeling down, straddling the boy’s shoulders. He clamped Spiderman’s head in his hands and twisted it up as far as it would go, the collar chain drawing taut. The huge white bug eyes of Spiderman’s mask stared up at him blankly.

He brushed his fingertips down the front of the mask, caressed the features of the teen hero’s face through the thin, skintight spandex. He could feel everything: full wide lips, high delicate cheekbones, the slender nose and large round eyes. Spiderman was a truly beautiful boy, perfectly proportioned, more attractive than any fashion model. A mouth made for fucking and eyes made for sobbing tears.

Michael almost wanted to rip the mask off… to finally see Spiderman’s real face. He imagined how beautiful and broken and young and exquisitely delicate the boy would be. But—as he’d quickly confirmed upon Spiderman’s capture—the boy’s entire costume including the mask was actually a one-piece bodysuit, with only a single hidden zipper along the sides and the back of the waist. There was no way to take off his mask without either taking off the entire suit, or—alternatively—to cut off the mask with a knife. Michael didn’t want to strip Spiderman of his costume—not yet, anyway—and he didn’t want to ruin the spandex.

What could Michael say? He had an incorrigible spandex fetish.

No matter. The little spider could still suck him off with his mask on, after all.

“I am your master,” Michael told the teen, “and you are my little spider slave. I will do whatever I want with you, whenever I want. I will use your body totally and mercilessly for my own pleasure. You’re mine now, you dirty bugboy bitch. Forever. Nod if you understand.”

The teen nodded, moaning softly.

_He didn’t even hesitate._

Michael laughed. “That’s a good spider slut, now.”

He pushed his groin up against Spiderman’s upthrust face. It was a painful position, forcing Spiderman’s shackled neck to arch backward at an brutal angle, and the boy cried out through his gag. Michael chuckled. The spider’s body was astonishing flexible, he’d discovered, and Michael intended to make the most of it.

“Shut up, you insect. You slutty spandex freak. You have no name except the one I give you. You have no voice unless I wish for you to speak. You are my slave, you are a disgusting filthy spider faggot and this is all that you deserve. You will submit to my every desire as I use your body for its only purpose. You exist solely to be my little fucktoy. Do you understand?”

The boy nodded again.

Slowly, methodically—for the first time since Spiderman’s abduction—Michael removed Spiderman’s gag. The rubber ball was held tight in Spiderman’s mouth by a strap that ran around the back of the boy’s head. Now Michael pulled it off. The ball popped out easily—its surface covered in deep bite marks—and rolled to the floor. Spiderman shuddered with a groan, his jaw muscles no doubt painfully weak after two weeks of being constantly stretched out. He didn’t try to talk, obviously too exhausted and broken. _Good_. Nor did he try to resist when Michael pushed his cock into the boy’s mouth.

“Be a good slut, now, and suck your master’s dick.”

Spiderman tried.

It was really wonderfully lewd. Spiderman was still wearing his mask, of course. The tight red spandex was stained with vomit, with dried blood, with semen and drool and sweat and urine and even with shit, from the times when Michael had taken a dump on the boy’s face. Michael grabbed the back of Spiderman’s head and forced his bulging erection down the costumed hero’s open throat. His mask stretched easily, hardly presenting any friction as Michael thrust deep inside. It was another condom of tightly-woven spandex… Michael’s engorged penis enveloped in the steamy heat of the boy’s mouth.

Michael groaned in pleasure when he entered.

Unfortunately, Spiderman had no idea how to properly suck someone off. Clearly the little bug-eyed faggot was a virgin in that respect. “Faster now,” Michael scolded. “Use your tongue.” He slapped Spiderman hard on on his cheeks. The boy moaned, squirming, obviously trying to comply, gagging as Michael reamed his manhood down the helpless hero’s throat. “You stupid insect, _suck harder_.”

All this time, the porno continued in the background behind him.

Judging by the screams, in the video Michael was doing quite unspeakable things.

Afterward—a long time afterward—Michael let Spiderman nestle his head against Michael’s crotch. The captured teen was limp and still, his body as flaccid as a corpse. Michael stroked the teen’s mask softly, whispering so many lewd and disgusting things, reminding the bugboy of what a dirty whore he had been. Spiderman began to cry again. Michael forced the boy’s face upwards, staring deep into the glossy white bug eyes of his mask. He could see the tears beneath the spandex.

“You liked that, didn’t you? You dirty fucking spiderslut. Say it! Tell me that you loved sucking my cock.”

Spiderman did not answer.

The boy’s hesitation angered Michael. “Say it, bitch!”

“I…”

It was the first time that Spiderman had spoken since Michael had abducted him. Of course, Michael had heard the teen’s voice before, from all the hundreds of videos and recordings he had gathered. But it was different hearing it now, in person. After all that had happened. The teen’s voice was broken, his words scarcely a whisper—hoarse from disuse, from endless screaming. Even so, the sound was so sweet. So sweet and lovely and young and pathetic.

“I… oh god…”

“Answer the question, you little freak!”

“Please… _please_ , why are you doing this—”

“Shut up!”

Michael slapped him.

But Spiderman was not listening. “Please.” The boy was in full meltdown mode now, a torrent of sobs. All his long-denied words finding voice at last. “Let me go, please. Oh god. I’m not… I… Please. I’m just a kid.” The captive teenage superhero in his lewd little skintight spandex costume was blubbering now, quivering as he begged desperately, all his pride and self-respect gone, all he wanted to do is to go home. “I’m only fifteen, please. My name is Peter—”

“ _I said, shut up!_ ” Michael shrieked.

This time he didn’t just slap the boy, he beat him with his fists. Pummeling the boy’s skull with a knuckleduster, battering and brutalizing his captive superhero into a daze, silencing the boy’s unwelcome pleas with savage force. Blood bloomed beneath the teen’s skintight mask.

Spiderman shut up.

Michael was breathing hard. _That fucking little shit_ , he thought. Michael wondered if he could somehow unhear the words he’d just heard. It was far more information than Michael wanted. He expressly did not want to know Spiderman’s secret identity. Connecting this ridiculous slutty mutant faggot who dressed up in gaudy red and blue spandex and called himself Spiderman to the life of a real kid, a kid who probably had a family and went to school, or some shit like that, was no fun to think about at all. _This is why I put a gag on him in the first place_.

No matter.

He would make the boy speak the truth soon enough.

“You’re so fucking stupid,” Michael hissed into Spiderman’s ear. “You dumb bitch. I told you already, you have no name except the one I give you. You have no voice unless I wish for you to speak. You filthy bugboy slut, this is all you’re good for. Do you understand? Say it!”

The boy only whimpered, sobbing and sniveling.

“Do you understand, insect? Say it!”

“Please…“

“ _Say it, or I’ll fucking ram my cattle rod up your ass and shock you until your dick falls off!_ ”

Spiderman squealed in desperate fear. And not just squealed—he actually fucking pissed himself. Michael was delighted to witness the boy’s extreme reaction. The teen hero uncontrollably urinated and defecated all over his own costume just at the mere whisper of Michael’s threat. The boy was so afraid of the electric torture that it had broken him in a single instant. “Please…” he whispered through a ragged throat. “Please, okay… I’ll… I’ll say it.”

Michael had trained him well.

“Now that’s a good little spider.”

“I have no name.” The boy was crying harder than ever. Shaking uncontrollably in the shackles, and not from the aftereffects of his brutal beating. “I have no voice. I…”

“Say it. Who are you?”

“I… I’m your slut. Oh god. Master, please…please don’t hurt me. I—I’ll be such a good slut. Yes. I’ll be your perfect little spider slave. I’ll do whatever you want. Just don’t hurt me anymore. Please… please let me suck your cock.”

Michael laughed.

How could he deny such a request?

The young bugboy took to his self-appointed task with unparalleled enthusiasm. Yes—he was learning much faster now. Michael screamed in pleasure as Spiderman gave Michael the best blowjob of his life. Michael could only admire the total and complete subjugation of the captured superhero. _My slave, my little shackled spider_. It was the fantasy beyond his wildest dreams, fully fulfilled at last. Nothing else mattered. Not being fired from Imo’s Pizza, not Saul the Spick, not even his mother. Michael J. Devlin was in total control. His life was complete; it was ecstasy and lewd, rapturous perfection beyond compare.

Only one thing disturbed his perfect fantasy.

_Peter, damn_. It was such a normal name.

Then the doorbell rang.


	5. Mary Jane

Mary Jane rang the doorbell.

Then she waited.

_And waited._

It was quite a long time before the door finally opened. So long, in fact, that MJ had half-turned to go, thinking that nobody was home. But then he was there. Michael J. Devlin stood in the doorframe, glowering down at her.

He wore the same clothes he’d worn that morning: a pair of ill-fitting blue jeans, old sneakers, and a blue cotton T-shirt emblazoned with the logo of Imo’s Pizza. Something seemed different, somehow. Devlin’s pasty skin was sweaty, his hair pasted in tangles against his forehead, as if he’d just gone for a long run. There was an odd smell about him, too, mixing with the sweat. What was it? It made Mary Jane vaguely nauseous.

_What has he been up to?_

“You’re the girl,” Devlin said slowly. “From Imo’s.”

MJ blanched. _So he remembers me_. “Uh, yeah… actually, I’m a reporter for the Daily Bugle. Well, an intern, I mean. My name is Madeline Stacy. I’m writing an article about Spiderman’s influence on the local community here in Hell’s Kitchen, and I heard you might have some interesting stories for me. Do you mind if I come in for a few minutes?”

The man jerked backward, as if physically struck.

“Spiderman?”

“Please, sir. I just want to ask a few questions.”

Devlin stared at her. His beady, close-set eyes were practically bulging out of his head. It was a very odd reaction… one that made MJ shiver. The man took a deep breath, then fixed a dark smile on his face. “Of course. Come in.”

Mary Jane walked into the house nervously. It was a fairly typical brownstone, she thought, though run-down. The wallpaper was starting to peel, and dust had gathered in clumps on the floor. Devlin led her through the foyer and into the living room. There was a large flat-screen TV, a sofa, and an old La-Z-Boy recliner, obviously well-used. Empty pizza boxes from Imo’s were stacked on the living room table. No wonder Devlin was so fat.

Devlin invited her to sit down. MJ thanked him, looking around as she did so. Adjoining the living room was the kitchen, dirty dishes and cans of beer piled in the sink. On the other side of the room was a hallway. Towards the back of the hallway was a staircase that went up to the second floor and the bedrooms. There was another door beneath the stairs which led to what appeared to be a basement.

“Ms… Stacy, is it?”

“That’s right.”

“You’re awfully young.”

The man glanced at her suspiciously. MJ swallowed, trying to remain calm. It was difficult. The odor she had smelled before was getting worse, like a sickness, floating in the air. _Where’s it coming from?_ Devlin didn’t seem to notice it. “I understand you’re a fan of Spiderman, Mr. Devlin. Do you feel that he’s been a beneficial presence in Hell’s Kitchen?”

“Oh, yes. He comes around at night to fight crime.”

“And have you ever personally had any encounters with Spiderman?”

“Once or twice.”

“Can you tell me about it?”

“Why, two weeks ago… well, it’s a long story. I was delivering pizza when I drove past the warehouse on West 56th street. I saw Spiderman swing into the warehouse. He was trailing a bunch of hoodlums. Spiderman beat them all up—you can read about it in the papers.” Devlin giggled, shaking his head up and down. The harsh sound sent a shiver down MJ’s spine. “‘Course, they hurt him back. He was staggering around in pain.” 

Mary Jane leaned forward in her seat. “And you saw this?”

“That’s right.”

“Then what happened?”

“Then he left.” Devlin shrugged, abruptly changing the topic of conversation. “Are you in high school, Ms. Stacy?”

“What? Uh, no… I go to NYU. I’m doing an internship at the Bugle, and—”

“—is that so? J. Jonah Jameson doesn’t like Spiderman very much, does he? Didn’t he write an editorial calling for Spiderman’s arrest?”

“Well…”

“I wonder why’d he commission a fluff piece on Spiderman. Especially from such a pretty young girl like you.”

“Yes, uh—”

“It’s all right, Ms. Stacy. I’m glad you here.” Appearances seemed to indicate otherwise. Devlin was sweating again, beads of it pouring down his pimpled face and down his tangled, stinky neckbeard. His dark beady eyes darted around the kitchen, to the hallway, then back to her. “Excuse me… you must be thirsty. Let me fix you some coffee.”

Devlin stood up and ambled into the kitchen.

Mary Jane did not have a good feeling about this.

In fact, she felt like she was going insane. _What am I doing here?_ This fat neckbeard obviously didn’t have the ability whatsoever to fight or defeat Spiderman. Though first impressions could also be deceiving. Looking at Peter, you would have never guessed that he was Spiderman. _If Devlin had secret superpowers…_

Or maybe Devlin was just what he appeared. A total loser, who had just been fired from his job at a pizza store.

MJ was truly desperate.

Peter had been missing for two weeks, and she wasn’t going to give up on him now. _I’ve got to see this through… there’s only me_.

_I love him._

Clutching her purse nervously, MJ got up as stealthily as she could and crept down the hallway. Her heart was pounding in her chest. She wasn’t exactly experienced at sneaking around other people’s houses. This was the sort of thing Peter did, not her. Only Peter wasn’t there. At the top of the staircase were two rooms. One of them had been boarded up with cement—the entire doorframe sealed from top to bottom.

And the other room…

… had to be Devlin’s _._

When she tried the knob with trembling hands, it turned.

Mary Jane opened the door.

And saw the sight she would never forget for the rest of her life.

_This—_

She had feared that Peter had somehow been captured by his enemies. People who hated him. Who wanted to hurt him, to get revenge for defeating them in battle. An angry supervillain getting revenge on his superhero nemesis.

_This is—_

Something else.

Posters of Peter were everywhere, pasted around the windowless bedroom. _No, not Peter_ , MJ thought. _Spiderman_. Peter in his Spiderman costume. Photos of Spiderman covered every single surface of the entire room: the walls, the ceiling, the floor. They were expensive, professional shots, done up in full color and the highest resolution. Mary Jane’s gaze was immediately drawn to the largest photo, the one hanging above the bed. A huge panoramic shot of Spiderman swinging through the city, the setting sun a blaze before him, skyscrapers all around. Spiderman looked so strong and inspiring in that poster—a true superhero. Sunlight streamed down from behind the camera and caught the shiny red and blue surface of his costume, making it sparkle, making the young hero glow, making all the corded sinews and lithe muscle of his acrobatic body visible beneath the thin, tight spandex fabric.

Yet even so something about the photograph chilled her; something about the way it was shot, the way it framed Spiderman, the way it lingered on his body.

A predator’s shot.

_This—this is—_

The other photos in Devlin’s bedroom left no room for doubt. Most of them were close-ups… blow-up images of different parts of Spiderman’s body. Spiderman’s masked face, the white bug-eyes staring out. Spiderman’s outstretched thighs in mid-kick. Spiderman’s arms tightening around a pole. Spiderman’s supple, willowy torso in profile, all limber bones and hard slender muscle without a trace of fat. And Spiderman’s crotch, the outline of his penis clearly visible through the spandex. Spiderman’s ass, a dozen different shots from every possible angle. Every photo was framed in such a way as to sexualize the young superhero in the most lewd way imaginable. Some of them even appeared to be discolored by what looked and smelled very much like semen.

This was not revenge. It was…

— _desire_.

“Omigod,” Mary Jane whispered.

MJ felt sick. All at once she knew what had happened; she knew exactly why Peter had disappeared, and who had been responsible for it. It was as if an electric blast had run down her spine. A sickening lurch in the pit of her stomach made her stumble in a daze. She wanted to fall to her knees and empty the contents of her stomach right then and there. But there was no time to throw up. A voice was screaming inside her. _He’s still in the house, Devlin is right here! If he catches you—_

She turned to leave—

—and heard Devlin’s footsteps on the stairs.

_Shit!_

Mary Jane was at a loss. A million thoughts flashed through her head. The staircase was the only way out of the bedroom, and Devlin had blocked it off. What if he had superpowers? Devlin had to have superpowers, if he’d been able to capture Peter. MJ knew she had made a horrible mistake.

_Help—get help—_

She sprang forward to lock the door from the inside. Then she dove into her purse to find her phone—to find the gun. _Breathe, MJ_ , she tried to tell herself _._ Her hands were trembling uncontrollably. _Breathe, call 911—_

Shit! There wasn’t any fucking reception! _Fucking shitty cell service—_

“You bitch!”

Devlin’s voice roared harshly from the other side of the door. The door rattled as the man fumbled at the knob, then shook as he put his weight into knocking it down.Amazingly, the door held.

_Shit—shit—_

“Get away!” Mary Jane screamed. “I have a gun!”

It was true. MJ had abandoned her useless phone and now held a Smith & Wesson pistol in her shaking hands. Trying to point the barrel at the door. Her late father’s gun… abandoned in a cobwebbed attic for years. He hadn’t needed it anymore, of course, so MJ had taken it to protect herself in her search for Peter. She’d hoped she would never have to use it.

Unfortunately, she’d been wrong.

_“_ Spiderman is mine! _”_ Devlin shrieked.

The door slammed open, the frame splintering. Michael J. Devlin filled the doorframe, a kitchen knife in his hand. A disgusting fat man in an Imo’s Pizza uniform, his pasty, sweaty face turned red with rage, spittle flying from his mouth.

MJ fired…

… and missed.

The bullet hit the doorframe instead. Somehow, MJ had missed her shot at almost point-blank range—her shaking hands causing the barrel to veer to the side.

And then Devlin was on her.

Striking her down in a single vicious blow with the flat of his knife. Wresting the gun away from her and trapping her beneath his body. She screamed, but it was no use. The man was fat, but he was also strong and big, his sheer bulk overpowering Mary Jane easily.

_No—fuck—_

Devlin’s fat hands wrapped around her neck. “Dumb bitch,” he hissed. “I knew you from the start. You little desperate skank. How dare you try to steal my spider from me!”

_Peter…_ Blood was running down MJ’s face _._ She couldn’t breathe, god, the fat man was squeezing the life from her. Her limbs growing numb. She couldn’t… _Peter—I… I’m sorry…_

“No, I ain’t gonna kill you.” Michael J. Devlin laughed. “Not before I teach you a lesson. Hello, bitch. Welcome to your new life.”


	6. Peter

His master’s voice burned in Peter’s captive ears, even as his hands tortured Peter’s captive body, as his cattle prod sent spasms of horrible pain through the boy’s muscle and bone and flesh. “Who is she?” screamed the fat man. Peter shrieked and shrieked as the electricity arced through him at voltages no ordinary human could withstand, at a level of punishment that would kill even elephants… “ _Who is the girl_?”

The young teen who had once called himself Spiderman lay limp and beaten on the floor, sobbing pathetically. His abused and starving and broken body convulsed involuntarily from all the vicious torture, like a seizure that never ended. For all his superpowers, he had been reduced to such a state of weakness that, even if he hadn’t been shackled to the dungeon floor, he would have been totally helpless.

“Who is she? Say it!”

“I…”

“Say it!”

Peter forced the words from his mouth. “I… I don’t know.”

“You lie!”

More electric torture came; another onslaught of agony. His master did not let up for even a moment. Peter screamed as the two tips of the cattle prod pressed sharply against his anus, as electricity blazed out to torture every part of his lithe, slender body. “ _AHHHH!_ ” the young superhero shrieked. He fell limp against the cold floor, wisps of smoke wafting from his burned ass.

“Look at you.” His master’s voice dripped with contempt, with lust. “Look at you crying in your slutty, spandex costume.”

Peter _was_ a slut. He knew that. That was why he been abducted. That was why he had been shackled and tortured and raped over and over and over and over again… what other reason could there be? That was why his tight skintight costume was covered head to toe with another man’s seed. That was why his mouth was full of the taste of another man’s cock. What else could be he be but a dirty filthy whore? He was a slut, that was exactly what he was. He was the fat man’s spiderslut, his little bugboy slave. Peter accepted that now.

But was he a traitor?

_Mary Jane…_

“Tell me who she is!” his master screamed.

Peter’s vision swam with purple snakes. He’d hoped that his master would torture him so viciously he’d fall unconscious. But his master had far too much experience now to allow him that way out. Instead Peter could only suffer in prolonged agony. Through his blurry vision he could see Mary Jane right in front of him. She had been chained to a pole in a corner of the basement, kneeling, her hands and feet chained behind her, struggling helplessly to escape, just as he was. His master had shoved a rubber gag in her mouth—that same gag that had silenced Peter for weeks—to keep her from talking, though her muffled screams were more than audible. Her face was flowing with tears, her bright green eyes wide with terror, and blood ran down from her wrists from her attempts to free herself from the handcuffs.

Peter tried to feel sorry for her.

_You weren’t raped, were you?_ he thought bitterly _. You weren’t abducted, like I was._ Mary Jane had no idea what Peter had been through… no idea what it was like to have a electric cattle prod stuck up her rectum, or the extremity of pain that could exist in this world. What was there for her to scream about?

_She found me_ , another part of him thought.

Somehow, Mary Jane had known that Peter had been kidnapped. Somehow, she’d even been able to track down the very house where he was being held captive. And if Mary Jane knew, then…

… then maybe others…

Yes. A single thread of hope existed.

But it was a bare thread indeed. Who else knew that he was Spiderman, besides MJ? And if she’d told the police, or the Avengers, then why had she come to the fat man’s house alone? More likely than not, MJ had tried to search for Peter all by herself.

And now the fat man had captured her, too.

_“Who is she?”_ the man shouted at him.

“Please…”

“I said, who is this fucking bitch?”

His master shocked Peter with the cattle prod again. It seemed that each time was more vicious and agonizing then the last. Peter shrieked and thrashed and vomited and pissed and shit into his own costume over and over. The young hero’s throat, wrists, and ankles were bleeding raw against the heavy, oppressive manacles chaining him to the floor. His skin was burned where the cattle prod had made prolonged contact with his body, especially across his anus and thighs and armpits. Peter absolutely could not take it anymore. He would have done anything to make it stop. Sucked his master’s cock, eagerly taken his master’s dick up the ass, done all the lewd and disgusting things that his master could think of. Anything…

Except betray Mary Jane.

_Oh, god_. The fat man had already taken away Peter’s freedom. He’d taken his virginity, and dignity, and future. He’d taken everything away from Peter. And now the fat man was going to take away the very last vestiges of his old life. _If I give up Mary Jane’s name…_

If Peter told his master who she was, he would kill her.

He knew that with a cold certainty. And not only would MJ’s life be forfeit, but Aunt May’s life would be, too. Peter had no doubt of the lengths his abductor would go to in order to eliminate any threat to his control over Peter. Peter could only protect his loved ones by refusing to reveal their identities.

But it was so hard.

“I…I don’t know her,” Peter sobbed desperately.

“She’s your girlfriend, isn’t she? Ugly little red-headed tart. Sticking her nose where she isn’t wanted, going around town looking for her missing boyfriend… for _Spiderman_. I know, you fucking piece of shit! How did she find us? Did you get her a message?”

“No. I didn’t—“

The prod hit him again. Again. Again, so many times. An inferno of electricity, of excruciating, endless torture. Peter shrieked until he was out of breath, and then he shrieked again. Tendrils of smoke arose from a dozen different places on the boy’s abused body, wafting over his soiled Spiderman costume.

“Fucking lying bugboy slut.”

“ _God_ …”

“Answer my questions, or I’ll make her answer them. Do you understand me?”

Peter shook his head feebly. But he understood all too well. If Peter wouldn’t break under the torture, then his master would shift his attentions to Mary Jane. And then he would torture _her_ until someone told him what he wanted to know.

Either way, MJ was a dead woman…

… but there were worse things than death.

Much worse.

“ _Please_ ,” Peter sobbed. After so many days being gagged, his voice silenced by a rubber ball, he’d found words to speak again… only for the fat man to torture him for information on his friends and family. It would have been better for him not to ever speak again at all. “ _Jesus_ … just kill me…”

His master walked toward Mary Jane, chained and struggling in the corner.

Peter could not keep the charade up any longer.

“Don’t,” Peter begged. “Please, Master… I’ll do anything you want. Just let her go.”

It was a pathetic statement. Peter had been doing whatever his master wanted, anyway… nor could he stop his master from using his body in any way he wished. Peter was nothing more than a manacled, powerless, starving, spandex-clad whore.

The man turned back. “So you admit you lied?”

“Please… don’t hurt her.”

“Is she your girlfriend?”

“… yes.”

“I fucking knew it!” The man flew into a rage, kicking and stomping on Peter’s prone body viciously. “You little spider-shit! How dare you be so disloyal to your master. How dare you even think about anyone else… especially _a woman_.” He paused, then laughed. “But she never knew you like I do, did she?”

His master took a temporary break from the torture to rape Peter in the ass. Evidently he just couldn’t help himself, too turned on by the pain and suffering he was inflicting on his captive young slut. Falling on top of the boy heavily, forcing his oversized cock into Peter’s anus, pumping away inside him with fierce lewd shouts. The worst thing was that Mary Jane saw everything. His girlfriend, the woman he loved, forced to watch as Peter was violated and raped in the most degrading way possible by a slobbering neckbeard sicko. Watching Peter as the fat man took him right there on the floor in his Spiderman costume. Watching her so-called superhero boyfriend utterly humiliated and shamed, unable to resist his own brutal rape except by thrashing uselessly against his shackles. And not even really trying to resist. Watching Peter moan and squirm and cry out underneath his master’s cruel thrusts just like the disgusting slut that he had become.

Peter would have cried, if he’d had any tears left.

_Mary Jane_ …

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “MJ… I’m so sorry…”

His master didn’t hear him—too distracted by fucking Peter—but Mary Jane did. Mary Jane shook her head from side to side, trying to scream muffled words through her gag. What was she saying? Peter couldn’t bear to look at her in this state. All her classical beauty had been stripped away, replaced by a mask of fear and horror and panic. Mary Jane’s face was completely white with terror, her cheeks covered in tears. A huge blackening bruise covered her right eye.

_It’s all my fault_ , he thought. _I caused this by becoming Spiderman in the first place._ If he’d never been Spiderman, the fat man would never have abducted him. If he’d never been Spiderman, Mary Jane would have never tried to go looking for him. He’d never have been turned into a broken little bitch, and she wouldn’t be in mortal danger. It was all Peter’s fault… his fault for putting on this slutty, red and blue skintight spandex bodysuit in the first place.

He just been asking to be raped, hadn’t he?

“You’re such a tight little fuck!” his master screamed. “Shit, it’s like your ass is sucking me in.” A shriek tore from Peter’s throat as the man pounded into him even more savagely. The teenager’s slim, prostrate body was far too small to accept the girth of his master’s penis, but his master didn’t care. Each thrust seemed to split Peter’s body apart, ripping away at his insides. Fresh blood soaked through the thin spandex fabric of the boy’s costume and trickled down his thighs. _Oh, god, it’s too much_. Peter squeezed shut his eyes from the pain. It was almost as bad as the cattle prod—almost. His master laughed in savage ecstasy. “Goddamn filthy faggot. Tell your girlfriend who you really are. Tell her how much you love your master’s cock.”

Peter moaned.

“Tell her!”

“ _Please_ … fuck me.” The words came so easily between the sobs. “Please… rape me. I love it… it’s all I’m good for. I’m your filthy bugboy slut.”

“That’s a good little spider.”

His master orgasmed with a roar. The fat man lay on top of Peter, panting, his breath rancid against the side of Peter’s face. His dick was still buried deep inside the boy. For a while he just stayed there, stroking his rough pudgy fingers across the curves of Peter’s body, touching the boy wherever he wanted. Peter hoped the man had somehow forgotten about Mary Jane… but of course he hadn’t. The fat man chuckled. “Damn, you tighten up so good. I could fuck you again already. Or I could use the prod…”

“No,” Peter gasped. “Please… Master… no more…”

“Then answer my questions, slave. Who else knows you’re Spiderman?”

“N—nobody…”

“Only this red-headed bitch?”

“Yes.”

“What’s her real name? Where does she live? How did she find me?”

Peter hesitated.

“Say it!”

“She… she’s a journalist. On our high school newspaper—”

_“—What’s her name?”_

Peter whimpered. Oh god, how long could he keep this up? The fat man would never stop until he tortured the name out of him. He’d tried so hard to protect Mary Jane. But eventually, he knew he would break. Break like he’d already broken. “Please…” He was so desperate. “I’ll—I’ll tell you everything. Master, I promise. Just let her go—”

“DEVLIN, YOU FUCKING BASTARD!”

The shout came out of nowhere.

It was Mary Jane’s voice.

In the corner of the basement, MJ had somehow gotten her gag off… it hadn’t been secured properly, she’d rubbed off the strap using the pole behind her. It hung from her neck, leaving her mouth free. His master roared in shock and rage. He rolled off Peter’s body and leaped toward her.

Mary Jane was uttering a stream of obscenities. “You disgusting sicko!” she screamed. “You fucking loser, he doesn’t love you—nobody loves you—”

“Shut up!” his master shrieked.

“—I called the police!”

“You _—what_?”

“Yeah, that’s right, I called 911. New York’s Finest, they’re coming to throw your pedo ass in jail. Why don’t you check yourself, if you don’t believe me? Look through your windows. You piece of shit—”

The man punched viciously Mary Jane in the face. Her head slammed back against the pole with a jarring clang.

“MJ!” Peter cried.

But his master did not hear him. He only glanced briefly at Peter, eyes wild, then look toward the dungeon stairs. In seconds the fat man had lumbered up the stairs and out through the door. He didn’t even bother to lock the door behind him.

Mary Jane coughed, then groaned in pain, slowly raising her head. Blood was running heavily down her lips. _A broken nose…_ but she was alive.

Unexpectedly, she began to laugh.

“MJ…”

“Peter…” Mary Jane shook her head, trying to collect herself. “ _Peter_ , listen to me.”

He could scarcely believe what was happening. “The police—”

“No, Peter. I lied.” Her voice was low but insistent, desperate. “I never finished the phone call. There’s just the two of us… nobody else is coming. You have to help me get these cuffs off, do you get it? Then I can free you. This is our only chance.”

“Oh, god.” Peter shook his head.

“ _Please_ , Peter. There’s no time. Devlin is going to return any minute. He’s going to figure it out—”

“I can’t!” Peter sobbed. “I can’t move, MJ. I… I tried so hard…”

“Peter, listen!”

He moaned in torment. What could he possibly do? Peter knew he couldn’t break his master’s shackles. He hadn’t been able to free himself even with his full strength, and he definitely couldn’t do it now, after so many weeks of vicious torture and starvation. _Help you?_ Peter couldn’t even help himself. He’d struggled so hard to escape… to resist, to fight, to be strong. But nothing he did ever mattered. None of his powers were any use. His master simply did whatever he wanted, and Peter could only take it. Peter whimpered in his chains like the stupid broken little boy he was. What was the point of fighting anymore? All it did was hurt more. It was… it was so much easier just to accept his fate…

How could he make Mary Jane understand?

There was no way out.

Once he’d been a hero, and now he was just a whore.

“Peter, listen! Damnit, _look_ , there, against the wall!” Mary Jane’s voice was shrill and pleading. “The key, Peter. You have to slide me the key.”

He didn’t understand what she was talking about. He shook his head again, turning his face away…

… and then he saw it.

A thin piece of metal lay on the floor between them.

_The key_. If Peter thought back real hard, he could almost remember. His master had carried a barely-conscious Mary Jane into the basement like a sack. He’d grabbed a pair of cuffs off one of the torture racks, shackling MJ’s hands and feet behind the pole. _But the key to the cuffs_ … he’d simply tossed them behind his shoulder. Peter couldn’t believe it. Could the fat man have been so stupid as to leave the key lying exposed in the open like that? But that had only been one of his mistakes, Peter realized. The sicko bastard had been too panicked to think clearly. Just like he hadn’t properly secured MJ’s gag. Just like he hadn’t locked the basement door behind him.

And yet…

… yet the key was too far away for Peter to reach.

He still couldn’t move.

“Use the prod, Peter!”

_The what?_ Then Peter noticed the cattle prod lying nearby, only an inch or so from his face. The fat man had dropped it there in order to rape Peter, and he’d never picked it back up again. But how could the prod help? If he stretched his neck hard to the side, maybe he could touch the prod with his mouth… but then what?

“The key, Peter! Please, there’s no time.”

Mary Jane twisted around with a jerk, shuffling her body against the pole in a circular motion until she was facing away from Peter. Then she sunk her cuffed hands to the ground, cupping them outward. At last Peter saw what MJ was getting at. _She wants me to push the keys into her hands!_

Using the cattle prod as a projectile missile.

_God_ … was it possible? The key lay at such an angle between them that, if Peter just threw the prod just right, with just the right speed and direction, maybe he could bounce the key off the wall and into Mary Jane’s hands.It would have to be a perfect shot. No ordinary human could aim a projectile so precisely. But he was Spiderman. He had superhuman agility, superhuman reflexes. Once, a lifetime ago, his powers had allowed him to swing with joyous abandon across the skyscrapers of New York City.

And now?

_Look at you. Look at you crying in your slutty, spandex costume._

_Filthy bugboy bitch._

“You can do it, Peter.” Mary Jane’s voice focusing his attention. MJ’s gentle, urgent voice guiding him out of the abyss. “Peter, I know… I know how hard this is for you. Don’t let Devlin win. We can beat him, together. You’ve got to just—get me the key!”

Peter grabbed the end of the prod with his teeth and flung it.

The key jumped, bounced… and skittered into waiting hands.

“Yes!” cried MJ.

It was only moments before she was able to free himself. Then Mary Jane ran over to him, kneeling by his side. “Peter!” Her voice came out all gagged, like she was about to vomit, obviously overwhelmed by the sheer disgusting stench of Peter’s body up close. Weeks of vicious and depraved torture had made his costume the filthiest thing in existence. She stuffed her shirt against her face even as she worked to try to detach the chain from Peter’s collar. “Oh, god, Peter, I’m sorry—” She pulled desperately on the heavy neck manacle, but to no avail. “Peter, damnit, how do I get this thing off?”

Peter tried to remember. It was so hard. “I—don’t know… there’s some kind of—sliding lock…”

“There!”

Mary Jane found the lock and twisted it. The short one-inch chain that held Peter’s neck down came loose, slithering to the floor. MJ quickly worked to free Peter’s wrists and ankles as well. The heavy manacles themselves were still locked around his limbs—but there now were no chains holding him to the floor. Peter groaned in delirious, agonizing relief. For the first time since his abduction, Peter could actually move his body freely… if he’d been strong enough to do so.

“Can you stand, Peter?” MJ asked. He shook his head feebly. Mary Jane helped him up to a sitting position, holding him in her arms. But Peter recoiled from her touch. His master had been the only person to touch him in so long. Holding him, caressing him, stroking and straddling and kissing him… hurting him, making him soil his own filthy, perverted costume, making him choke on his own puke-drenched mask. MJ was touching him just like that. Peter vomited, though nothing came out of his empty stomach, then started to hyperventilate. MJ’s eyes were wide with horror. “Oh, jesus, Peter, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—“

“ _Please_ …” he gasped. “My mask… take it off… god, MJ, get it off me—”

“I will!” she promised. “I will, but we’ve got to get out of here first…”

“ _You lying bitch!_ ”

The door to the dungeon slammed wide open. Peter’s master appeared at the top of the stairs; his pimpled, pasty face was twisted into a bloodthirsty rage that even Peter had never seen before. He quailed before his master’s anger.

_Oh god—he’s going to hurt me so bad—_

“You get away from him!” Mary Jane screamed.

“I’m going to blow your fucking brains out!”

His master wielded a pistol, which he pointed right at MJ’s face. The man stalked down the stairs, moving in for a closer shot. Peter shrieked. Everything happened in an instant—so fast. Mary Jane pushed Peter aside and rushed at the fat man. His master tried to fire, but MJ was able to somehow lay a hand on the gun barrel. There was a struggle as the two of them wrestled to get control of the gun. Both of them screaming, shouting threats. Peter moaned on the floor, too weak to fight, too tired and broken. _But I… I’ve got to…_ It was hard to even open his eyes.

MJ’s skull cracked as Devlin hit her with the side of the gun.

She went down hard. A pool of blood spread beneath the back of her head, soaking her hair.

… _oh god_ …

His master bellowed in triumph. “Bitch! Spiderman is mine! Did you think you could steal him away from me?” He aimed the gun at Mary Jane’s chest. “ _I said, the little slut is mine!_ _Now fucking_ _die!_ ”

“No!” Peter cried.

With his very last strength he leapt toward Mary Jane. The awkward leap brought him into the line of fire between Devlin and MJ. The fat man held down the trigger…

… and the bullet tore through Peter’s body.

“Aghk!”

Peter collapsed with a strangled groan. His chest was on fire, the gunshot hitting him right through the lung. He had taken the bullet meant for MJ. _I protected her_ , he thought dully _._ Blood flowing in rivers from his chest, filling his throat, his mouth… _I saved Mary Jane’s life…_

“NO!” his master screamed. “Stupid, stupid slut! Why did you do that—”

The gun clattered to the ground, forgotten. His master was tearing at his hair, distraught. He fell to his knees before Peter’s bullet-ridden body. Running his hands all over Peter’s wound.

’“—look at all this blood. Look at it! You fucking lying slut. You promised—you were supposed to—”

_“Take this, psycho!”_

Devlin had overlooked Mary Jane in the confusion. It was a fatal mistake. Somehow Mary Jane had recovered from the vicious blow to her head. Now she’d staggered to her feet and reached for the nearest weapon at hand.

MJ raised the cattle prod with a roar.

And then brought the two sharp tips directly down upon Devlin’s face.

The fat man shrieked… though not for very long. The voltage of the cattle prod had been specially calibrated to cause the maximum amount of pain to Peter’s superhuman body. An ordinary man would be knocked into unconsciousness instantly—and he was. Devlin dropped forward onto Peter, a motionless slab of corpulent meat. Smoke poured from his master’s head.

“Peter!”

Mary Jane pulled him from under the body. Peter felt himself being lifted… lifted up into MJ’s arms. But it was a very faint feeling. Peter could hardly feel anything anymore. His limbs were growing cold. His vision going black…

“Peter, you’ve got to stay with me. Devlin’s gone! It’s over, it’s over, you have to…”

He tried to speak, but only blood came out beneath his mask.

_MJ…_

She held his limp body against her own, grunting as she took his weight, as she ran up the stairs. Peter rested against her shoulder like a sleeping child. At this angle, for just a second, he could see all of the basement dungeon. He could see the empty shackles where he’d been chained to the floor for so long. He could see the discolored pool of dry shit and piss and puke and semen that spread across the metals tiles like a fungus. And he could see his master lying limp on the ground. The fat man named Devlin. The ex-assistant pizza store manager who had kidnapped Peter with a tranquilizer gun and then subjected the helpless young superhero to unspeakable acts of slavery, torture, and rape. Was he dead? The man was naked from the waist down, astonishingly fat, his favorite Imo’s Pizza shirt bunched up over his chest. His dick was erect even now, huge and red and violent. Wisps of smoke wafted from the fat man’s face.

_MJ… I’m sorry…_

“Help! God, somebody help! He’s dying! _Please_ —Spiderman—” Who was she screaming at? Peter didn’t understand. Light seemed to be stinging his eyes. He closed them. He was so tired. He was so broken. He felt himself slip into the void… into a place far, far away…

_I—_

He prayed he would never wake up again.


	7. Michael

SIX MONTHS LATER:

Prison wasn’t as exciting as Michael had imagined it to be. He had seen too many Hollywood movies, he supposed. Tattooed gangs knifing each other in the cafeteria. Muscled black men raping lithe white twinks in the shower. Michael had even fantasied about acquiring his own boy; holding down a squirming teenage faggot on the floor of his cell in the dark, and pretending the slut was Spiderman.

Sadly, his fantasies were not fulfilled.

Instead they put Michael in a cell all by himself. _Solitary confinement on Rikers Island_. The judge at Michael’s trial—a hideous, hectoring old woman who was a dead ringer for his late mother—had nearly had a heart attack when she saw the porno tapes Michael had made of Spiderman’s captivity. She’d branded Michael an extremely dangerous, psychotic criminal, and sentenced him to multiple life sentences without parole. Michael was locked in a small room behind solid steel doors. He was not allowed any contact with other prisoners and the guards never spoke to him, except to make fun of his scarred face. Over the duration of his stay in prison, in other words, Michael had done a lot of thinking. There was nothing else for him to do. He lifted weights. He read the newspaper that came daily with his rationed meals. He masturbated.

That was all right, though, Michael told himself. All he had to do was wait.

_My spider will come back to me._

It took six months.

Michael always scanned the Daily Bugle each day for articles about Spiderman. There had been no sightings of Spiderman for months. The young superhero had totally disappeared off the face of the planet. J. Jonah Jameson wrote an editorial celebrating Spiderman’s unexpected retirement. Clearly, everything about what had really happened in the basement of Michael’s house had been covered up by the authorities.

Then, only one week ago, Spiderman had returned.

Michael outright ejaculated when he saw the front-page color photograph on the front of the Daily Bugle. Spiderman swinging from building to building along Fifth Avenue… the boy back in his gaudy spandex costume. Back to being a superhero. The news from there only proliferated. Spiderman rescuing cats from trees. Spiderman stopping a bank robbery. Spiderman fighting with the Green Goblin.

_You stupid little slut,_ thought Michael. _Trying to distract yourself, is that it? But I know what you really want…_

He was right.

It happened late one night. The door to his cell opened and Michael was suddenly pushed outside by the guards, shackled at wrists and ankles, then shuffled down a corridor into a dimly-lit visiting room. It was too dark to make out the corners of the room, the ceiling or the far wall. But Michael was able to see that the room was divided into two, with a thick but clear glass barrier separating the two halves. He stood tall where he was, smiling grotesquely. He knew exactly what was about to happen.

How many times had Michael imagined this reunion, over the past half year?

On the other side of the room, Spiderman descended slowly from the ceiling on a stand of webbing.

The boy was hanging upside down in the air, legs curled up underneath him, arms outstretched, his profile underneath the red and blue spandex costume slender and lithe—impossibly graceful, impossibly delicate. His white bug eyes looked Michael up and down—and immediately locked on Michael’s face.

“Hello, Spiderman.” Michael grinned. “I knew you’d come back to me.”

The boy did not speak. Michael could hear the pounding of the boy’s heart anyway. He could feel it. _Oh, yes_. Fear, panic, loathing, subjugation, shame…

… the sordid stain of sex.

“Do I look different?” asked Michael. “Prison food will do that to you. And… of course… being electrocuted by a red-headed skank.”

When he looked in the mirror, Michael scarcely recognized himself. Gone was the fat, the layers of flesh around his stomach and thighs and neck. Prison rations and hours of daily workouts in his cell had dropped his weight by over a hundred pounds. Michael looked like a fucking bodybuilder now. Muscles rippled all along his large, tall frame, adding to his natural strength.

And his face?

The girl—Spiderman’s girlfriend—had attacked Michael with a cattle prod. The girl had used it to electrocute him in the face. Michael had very nearly died from the arcing white-hot voltage. The doctors had been able to restart his heart, but they could do nothing for his appearance. His entire face was a mess of burned skin. His lips almost burned off, his hair permanently scorched away, his forehead and cheeks and neck a ravaged web of black and red burns. A deep, jagged black scar ran across his temple and slashed down his cheek where the tips of the cattle prod had intersected his flesh. Michael’s new face was absolutely hideous… and terrifying.

He grinned.

“It’s what you deserve,” the boy whispered. “You deserve _worse_. I know all about you now, Devlin. I know about your twisted life. You’re… you’re fucking sick.”

The little spider-slut looked just as beautiful as when Michael had first beheld him, that night in the warehouse. But he was not the same. _Oh, no._ Michael could see how broken the young teen really was. Trying to hide it, but Michael could see. Michael could see it in the sweat that beaded behind the boy’s glossy mask. Could hear it in the boy’s wavering, quivering voice. Could _smell it_ on the boy’s body… the little mutant freak responding unconsciously and uncontrollably to the presence of his rightful master. Opening his legs slightly more than necessary. Flexing his little budge up and down. Parting his lips, as if desperately missing the thickness of Michael’s cock down his throat.

Michael laughed.

_Once a fucktoy, always a fucktoy._

It still hurt a little for Michael to speak. The electric attack had ravaged his vocal cords, too, changing his voice, making it deeper and raspier. But he enjoyed the sound. It was a symbol of his ascension to supervillain-status. Michael used it to maximum effect now. “If I’m sick… then what you are, Spiderman? What are you, when you begged me to fuck you? To suck my cock? To be my perfect little spiderslut?”

“You tortured me. You made me say things…. do things I hated.”

“You loved it.”

“ _No!_ ”

Spiderman flipped onto the floor and and lunged forward suddenly, as if he meant to strike at Michael through the glass partition. But the young hero forced himself to stop at the last moment. Instead he turned his head away… showing off his slim and lithe profile from the side. The red and blue spandex hid nothing, of course. The arc of the boy’s throat and spine, the perfect curve of his buttocks, the slightest budge of the boy’s dick showing between his legs. Oh, yes. Michael knew every single inch of that lascivious teenage body in the most intimate way possible. To be honest, Michael was surprised that the bugboy had ever dared to show up in the same costume again. Even after all that happened… but, of course, maybe the little faggot couldn’t help himself. Maybe he just liked his Spiderman costume too much. It had too many wonderful memories.

Michael laughed again.

The fifteen-year-old teen paused for a long moment. “You tried to break me, Devlin. You tried to make me into something else… into your slave. But you failed. I’m still Spiderman. And I’m not going to run away… I’m going to keep on helping people.”

“So you put on that slutty spandex suit again. Didn’t you get enough the first time, Spiderman? Not enough capture and rape and torture for you yet? God, you’re so fucking disgusting.”

The boy swallowed hard. “I… I know the risks now. What kind of evil sickos are really out there… hurting innocent people. Like you hurt me. But I also know that I’m not just a victim. I’m a hero, too. And with great power comes great responsibility.”

The little shit had obviously rehearsed this speech, Michael could tell. That would not do.

“Do you really imagine, my dear bugboy, that _you_ are stronger than _me_?”

“I am stronger.”

“Is that so? If your girlfriend hadn’t come to rescue you, you’d still be in my basement. _Six months later_.”

“You couldn’t break me.”

“Oh, but I did. That’s why you cry yourself to sleep every night. That’s why you’re afraid of ever having sex again. That’s why, when you touch yourself, you think about me.”

Spiderman stared.

“You… you don’t know what you’re talking about,” the boy sputtered. “You’re just making that up.”

“Oh no, Spiderman. I know you better than anyone else. Your friends, your family, your bitch of a girlfriend. I know you in your darkest moments… and I know how weak and pathetic you are. I know what a faggot you are. We were so close. You remember it all… don’t you? How we lay together on the floor. How fucking _hard_ you got as you rubbed your dick against mine… how you moaned and thrust your hips like the degenerate, dirty, reeking whore you are. How you screamed and thrashed when I electrocuted you with my cattle prod… how you shit your own costume and vomited into your own mask, because that’s how filthy and disgusting you are. How you begged to suck my cock—”

“ _Shut up!_ ”

Spiderman looked down with balled fists, chest heaving. The boy was obviously crying. With another twist of the rhetorical knife, Michael could probably get the boy to piss in his pants too. Michael stepped up to the edge of the glass partition, chains rattling, his face only inches from the boy’s own.

“Come back to me, my little spider slave,” said Michael. “Come back… to your master.”

“ _You are not my master!_ ” the boy shrieked.

But the boy’s body betrayed him. He was shaking all over, trembling like he had been caught in a freezing storm. If the glass hadn’t been in the way, Michael was sure that he could beat down an compliant, unresisting Spiderman right there. As it was, the boy nearly feel to his knees from his weakness. The young teen hero had to force himself physically backwards, away from Michael and into the shadows along the far wall, before he could recover himself.

Michael laughed.

“Damn you,” the teen whispered. “ _God damn you_. I thought… if I came here, if I saw you again, I would understand why. The same question I ask myself every day. _Why did this happen to me?_ ” Spiderman looked up at Michael with plaintive, desperate white bug eyes. His lithe, limber muscles were clenched all over, as if he wanted to fight, or fuck… or both. “It was _because of you_ , you fucking nutjob. You did this to me! You destroyed my life! You fucking bastard, you should have died in that basement. You should’ve… should’ve been abducted and chained to the floor and tortured and… and…”

And that was the truth, Michael saw.

This was what the little spandex-clad whore had really wanted to say to him.

Ah… but there was such a thin line between love and hate.

“Peter,” Michael whispered softly.

The boy did not breathe.

“Yes… _Peter_. Did you forget you told me your real name, you stupid little bitch?” Michael threw back his head and cackled… displayed the full terrifying visage of his burned face. “I remember it all. You’re fifteen. And you have a girlfriend with red hair. And you go to the same high school. When I escape from here—”

“You’ll never escape.”

“—when I escape, the first thing I’ll do is find your girlfriend. I’ll find that red-headed tart, the one who did this to my face, and I’ll abduct her. And then I’ll make you come running to save her. Will you? Dare you? Yes, I think you will, because you think you’re some kind of superhero… when we both know the truth. And then I’ll make you become my bitch again just to save her. It’s okay, Spiderman. We both know that deep down this is what you want. This is what you were born for. Your body, mine and forever… _my beautiful, filthy little spider slut_. You’re mine, Spiderman. You’ll always be mine.”

“Your delusions are sick, Devlin. That’s all they are.” The teen hero tore his gaze away from Michael’s own with an obvious effort. He even turned to place his hands on the far wall, as if he was about to vomit. Clearly, the boy had reached the limits of his emotional endurance, and now needed to go cry himself into a puddle somewhere else. Michael sensed the meeting was over. “You’ll never see me again, Devlin. I hope you rot in prison for the rest of your short life. And I hope… _it hurts_.”

Michael grinned.

_One last twist of the knife_.

“How’s that old line go? Oh, right. We’ll always have the basement.”

Spiderman turned back. He couldn’t help himself. The boy’s glossy white bug eyes stared at Michael for a moment. Michael could almost visualize the boy falling to his knees, right then and there, and begging to be taken back into Michael’s good graces. Instead the boy shook his head slowly. “ _Never_ ,” he whispered.

Then the boy leaped up into the darkness of the ceiling, and was gone.

Michael was taken back to his cell after that. The days in his little solitary prison cell passed uneventfully, the same as before. Michael worked out. He ate, and slept, and read, and brooded. He masturbated to stories about Spiderman in the newspaper. He waited. All he had to do was wait, he knew—he was supremely confident of it. All good things came to the patient man. An opportunity would finally arise.

It came even sooner than he expected.

He was awoken in the night by a distant, growing roar. The roar must have been very loud, if Michael could hear it even in the solitary confinement unit. It was all a jumbled mix: screams, shouts, the crack of gunfire, explosions. Michael realized that a prison riot had broken out on Rikers Island.

The steel doors of his cell swung open.

Michael ambled out in a jaunty mood. When he looked down to either side, he saw the prison guards lying at his feet. They were dead, their necks broken. _Of course_. A handsome man in a tailored suit was waiting for him in the dark corridor.

“Hello, Mr. Devlin. It is my pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“Who are you?”

The man only smiled. “I must confess… when the rumor first came to me that _you_ had abducted _Spiderman_ , well… color me surprised. After all the assorted supervillains who’ve tried to squash the little red-and-blue bug… for an assistant pizza store manager to finally do the deed—why, it seemed so unlikely. But I have been quite impressed in my recent observations of you, Mr. Devlin. You have no powers, it’s true. No exceptional abilities of any sort, in fact. But you do have a… uniquely depraved mind.”

This was true.

“What I did before, I can do again,” said Michael.

“Unfortunately, I fear otherwise. You had a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to capture Spiderman. It won’t be that easy the next time. And you have no way of actually defeating our garish bug-boy in combat. After all, he is a mutant, and you have no powers.” The man grinned. “However…”

Michael understood. “But you can help me.”

“A deal, Mr. Devlin.” The man slipped a hand into his suit jacket and brought out a large vial filled with a sickly green substance. “Work for me… and I’ll give you your heart’s deepest desire. This is my promise to you… from one supervillain to another.”

Michael widened his eyes. “You’re—”

“My name is Norman Osborn.” The man dangled the vial from his fingers. “And how much, Mr. Devlin, would _you_ like to have _superpowers_? I understand you have quite an intimate relationship with… electricity…”


End file.
